


When The Dust Settles

by DynamicDuo (XylB)



Series: Post-Telltale [1]
Category: Batman: The Telltale Series (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, Sex, creative naming liberties, not adoptive Batfam setting, retired Batman, set post-Telltale, villain Joker ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:28:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 60,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25611316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/XylB/pseuds/DynamicDuo
Summary: The first thing Bruce does after retiring from Batman is visit Jim. The second thing is tell Jim the truth. The third? Figuring everything else out on the way.A fic that follows the months after Bruce retires, and how he settles into post-vigilante life with a new, but growing family.(Set post-Telltale Season 2, villain Joker ending)
Relationships: Jim Gordon/Bruce Wayne
Series: Post-Telltale [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1856428
Comments: 36
Kudos: 32





	1. First Month

"You're running late. Thought you wouldn't show up." Gordon's back in his Commissioner clothes, his ever-present cigarette burning close to his fingertips. He leans heavily on a plain brown cane. 

"Wouldn't be the first time," he adds with a little chuckle. 

"Sorry. I was...busy," Bruce says, emerging from the shadows. Each movement reminds him how he'll miss the weight of the suit on his shoulders, the automatic intimidation and respect it commands. But Alfred is more important to him than the suit. 

And so is Gordon, which is why Alfred agreed to let him take it out one last time to talk to him. 

"No problem," Gordon says easily, waving a dismissive hand. "I actually flipped this on to uh, to thank you. For convincing Waller to reinstate me. It means a lot, Batman." 

"You deserve it, Jim. You're the best Commissioner Gotham has ever seen." 

Jim laughs, pausing in his reply to take a drag of his cigarette. Smoke puffs out of his mouth when he talks again. 

"Thanks," he says again. "Although I wouldn't be able to do half of it without you." 

"You should give yourself more credit." 

"I don't mean the fighting - don't get me wrong, that's great too - I mean the - that partnership. Hell, the friendship. It's nice having someone to talk to." 

Bruce sits down heavily on the low concrete wall surrounding the Batsignal. 

"I like it, too," Bruce says, glancing up at Jim to gauge his reaction. Jim just looks coolly at him, if a little flushed in the cheeks. He clears his throat and sucks on the cigarette again, looking out at the city. 

"So, what's next for us?" Jim asks gruffly. "Any more friends of yours?" 

Bruce huffs out a mirthless laugh. "I think we dealt with all of them. They're in Waller's hands now." 

"I don't like the sound of that. But if it means she's out of Gotham, I can't worry too much about it." 

Bruce nods in agreement. 

"You might have a day off, for once," Jim jokes. He suddenly swears and quickly stubs out his cigarette, rubbing his burnt fingertips on his coat sleeve. He doesn't light up another one yet. 

Bruce doesn't reply. Jim shoots him a sideways glance. 

"Batman?" He asks. "What's wrong?" 

"I'm...retiring," Bruce says, gazing at Wayne Tower in the distance. Jim furrows his brow, turning to look at him fully. 

"Retiring?" But he doesn't accuse. The shock and brief anger flick across his face within seconds. 

"I guess I can't fault you for it," Jim says with a sigh, his shoulders slumping. Bruce respects that about Gordon - he understands the unique hardship of their jobs, he understands the stress, he understand why even if he doesn't know the details. 

"But why? We're a good team, Batman." 

"We're a great team," Bruce agrees. He chews on his next words for a moment, resting his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands together in thought. 

"It's...my family," he says eventually. Jim blinks in surprise but doesn't say anything. "I don't want to lose them to this." 

"I know what you mean," Jim says. He's got a family of his own - an ex-wife he's still best friends with, and their two children, both already grown up and living on their own. 

"I have a mentor," Bruce adds. "She can help you." 

"The Fox kid, right?" 

Bruce nods. Silence stretches between them for a long moment. 

"So...you came here to say goodbye?" Jim asks. 

"No," Bruce says. "I came to tell you the truth." 

"The truth? Wait, Batman, you don't - I'm fine not knowing who you are, if that's what you're talking about. I don't care. You're Batman. You're my best goddamn friend." 

Bruce swallows thickly. He can feel the awkward tension between them, bubbling from years of working together, of the playful flirting that turned into something a bit more serious, of the feelings he holds for Jim that mean a hell of a lot more than friendship. And he can see the same thing in Jim, in the way his left hand grips the cane a bit more tightly, the way his right hand drifts involuntarily to his coat pocket for his pack of cigarettes. He doesn't take one out, though, which Bruce has learnt to mean he's hiding some sort of unspoken desire. 

"I want you to know," he says. "Because I want...I want to stay friends with you." 

"Friends?" Jim asks, a knowing inflection in his tone. Bruce resists the urge to bite back his words. 

"More," he replies, bold with the mask on, anonymous, _Batman_. 

Jim takes out his cigarettes and deftly slides one between his lips. He doesn't light it. He looks out at Gotham and back to Bruce. 

"You don't have to," he says, Bruce can hear the curiosity, the desire. It's not a _no_. It's just Jim being Jim, being honourable and right and never saying that he would wish to taint his friend's anonymity, even if he desperately wants to know who it's been this whole time. 

In response, Bruce puts his hands on either side of his head and pushes on the discreet latches with his thumbs. The lights in the eyeholes grow dim, and he pulls the helmet off. 

He sets it down beside him and runs a thick gloved hand through his hair, trying to clean it up a bit. 

Jim's eyes almost bug out of his head. 

" _You're_ Batman?!" 

"Was Batman," Bruce replies as calmly as he can - it's hard with the unbidden butterflies in his abdomen. "Now I'm just Bruce in an armoured suit." 

"I need - I need a second," Jim says, lighting his cigarette, but he doesn't look in the least bit angry or disappointed. He takes a long drag and smoke billows through the yellow ray of the Batsignal. 

"I _arrested_ you," he says. 

"That was a bit inconvenient." 

"Waller knew who you were...that's why she was protecting you. That's why _you_ were going undercover." 

"Yeah," Bruce says, wincing slightly. "She wasn't kind about it." 

"Blackmail?" 

"More like forcing my hand. But she's promised to keep it quiet now." 

"Wow," Jim says. "Sorry about bein' so hard on you." 

"It's okay, you were just doing your job." Bruce smiles, and Jim returns it with a good-natured chuckle, walking over to flip the Batsignal off. He sits down beside Bruce afterwards, stretching his legs out with a groan. 

"Sorry about your legs," Bruce says. "I didn't...know he'd do that." 

"It's all right. I'm the one that turned you over to him." 

Jim frowns, thinking. 

"Did he know - " 

"Yes. He was also twisting my arm about it." 

"Jeez." 

Bruce glances down at Jim's hand, resting on the concrete between them. His cane leans against the wall on the other side of him. 

"So everyone knew but me?" Jim says, but he's smiling, joking. "Even Tiffany?" 

"Sorry," Bruce jokes back. Then, more seriously. "I wanted to tell you years ago." 

"Why? That would have been wildly irresponsible." 

"That's what Alfred said," Bruce laughs. "But I guess because...I wanted us to be friends. Real friends, no jobs or masks or - or anything."

Jim takes a pull of his cigarette. 

"I'd say we got there in the end," he says with a grin. "I trust you, Ba - _Bruce_." He makes a face. "God, that's weird. I'll have to get used to that." 

Bruce chuckles quietly, placing his hand gently next to Jim's on the concrete, pinky fingers touching ever-so-slightly. Jim doesn't move his hand. 

"Only if you want to," he says, a question and a plea all in one. 

"Are you kidding me? Of course I want to." 

Bruce takes in a deep breath, trying to work up his courage - not usually a problem for Batman, or for CEO Wayne. But right now he's just Bruce. 

"Then do you want to go to dinner?" He asks. "With me? So we can sit down and...and I can explain...more, I guess, of everything." 

Jim nods to himself. 

"That'd be nice, Bruce," he says. His hand moves to rest on top of Bruce's, surprising him. 

Bruce gently turns his hand over to hold Jim's. Neither of them look down. 

"Better not be some fancy fuckin' millionaire's restaurant," Jim warns. "These are the nicest clothes I own." 

Bruce laughs - light, carefree, and Jim's eyes crinkle in the corners when he smiles. Bruce loves it. Loves him. 

"I promise it'll be as rundown and nicotine stained as you." 

"Perfect." 

\-- 

"Holy shit, you did it." 

"I knew you'd like it," Bruce says with a laugh. Jim shoots him a playful look, his arms crossed over his chest. Above them, the neon sign flickers. 

"I haven't tried the food yet," he warns. "You're still on the hook, playboy." 

"Okay, okay, _Commissioner_." Bruce lifts his hands in mock-surrender and lets Jim go ahead of him. 

It is exactly the rundown, nicotine-stained place Bruce promised - but it's a hole in the wall that he's been to many times, with various...associates, and the food is honestly miles better than some of the stuff Bruce chokes down at expensive charity galas. 

It's fairly busy when they get inside, with roughly half of the booths occupied. They tuck themselves in at one in the corner, nodding politely at the waiter that breezes by their table to ask for initial drink orders. 

"Anything dark," Jim says after a glance at the beer list. "Whatever you've got on hand." 

"Same for me, thanks," Bruce adds, and they thank the waiter before he whooshes off to another table. 

"Tell ya there, for a second I thought he was about to recognise me," Jim says, nudging his cane further into the corner with his foot. "I know I ain't exactly flying under the radar." 

"Worried about your reputation?" Bruce teases. "I'll try my best not to ruin it." 

"Fuck my reputation. I just don't want to be treated like I'm on the job when I'm on a - well, when I'm having dinner." 

"Just dinner?" Bruce raises a playful eyebrow. Jim clears his throat, embarrassed, and the waiter saves him from answering immediately by setting down their drinks in front of them. 

"Maybe not _just_ dinner," Jim says when the waiter leaves, calmly picking up his menu to browse it. "So what's good here, Wayne?" 

They wind up with burgers, and they end up talking, and explaining. They share a moment of silence for Lucius. For Regina. For the board members. Jim reaches over to take Bruce's hand afterwards, and Bruce squeezes it in return. He talks about Joker, about the dinner party at the carnival, about the fight afterwards - Jim replies with the story of Waller's stupid bureaucracy, of how Joker roped him in, of all the stuff on the sidelines that Bruce missed while he was kidnapped. 

It should be a sombre, serious dinner, but once they lay everything out, all that remains is unnecessary apologies and a quiet, comfortable atmosphere. The waiter swings by to pick up their finished plates and take their dessert orders. 

"I missed you, you know," Jim says, reaching out again for Bruce's fingers. "Whenever I saw you on the news, or just around the city, I just wanted to _talk_ to you. Tell you what was going on down here." 

"I heard about it," Bruce replies. "And I heard about what you did with the map. You're a hero, Jim." 

"You're the hero Gotham needed. I was just doin' my job." 

"So was I," Bruce says, and Jim squeezes his hand in silent understanding. 

\-- 

The wind outside is several degrees colder than when they went in. Bruce suppresses a shiver and opens the car door for Jim, despite his grumbling. He slips into the drivers' seat as Jim tugs his door shut, stretching his legs out in the footwell with a sigh. 

"Do you want the heating on?" Bruce asks, finger hovering over the button. Jim nods. Bruce turns it on and reaches across to flick the fans down to point at Jim's knees. "Sorry, I didn't realise the diner would be - " 

"Shut up," Jim says kindly. "I would've said something if it was bad." 

"As long as you're okay." Bruce digs his car key in and turns the engine on to start slowly easing out of his parking spot. 

"I'm fine. I was enjoying dinner too much to notice." 

"Really? You enjoyed talking about my stab wounds?" 

"I think you made up for it," Jim teases, adjusting his glasses. "At least the burgers did." 

"Flattering, thank you." 

The engine rumbles around them in the brief silence that follows, interspersed by the quick zip of police sirens on the opposite side of the motorway. Jim follows them idly with his eyes. 

"Come over to mine next time," Jim blurts out - Bruce glances over and Jim looks steadfastly out the window. 

"I don't usually put out until the third date," Bruce jokes. 

"I read newspapers, Bruce." 

"You got me there." 

"And I meant for dinner, asshole. I can cook for us next time." 

Bruce's breath catches in his chest, a hopeful little hitch that hangs in the air. 

"I'd like that," he settles on. "I'd really like that." 

The smile Jim turns on him is reward enough. 

The rest of the way back is accompanied by idle chatter, easy jokes, and easier laughter. Jim toys with some of the buttons in the car, Bruce slaps his hand away from the dash, and the cycle repeats. Gotham streaks by beside them, all harsh lights and soft shadows. Despite the chill, there's plenty of people out for a good time, a lot of families walking carefree down the streets Bruce used to patrol. It's a surprising relief, to see the citizens of Gotham walk freely again, fearless, no brazen Arkham criminals running about anymore. 

Jim lives on a quiet street, and there's no one out on it when Bruce pulls up to his house. There's plenty of lights on in the neighbourhood, a glimpse of TVs through front rooms, kitchens darkened down for the night. 

"Well then," Jim says. "This is my stop." 

Neither of them lean in. Bruce wants, so desperately _wants_ to, but something stops him. He doesn't know what, but he's glued to his seat. 

"I had a great time tonight," he finds himself saying instead. _Next time_ , he promises himself. 

"Me too," Jim says, and pauses only for a moment before getting out of the car. 

Bruce turns off the heating and watches Jim start to walk up to his house - but two steps from the car, he hears Jim sigh before returning to the car. 

"Fuck it," Jim mutters to himself, and collapses into the seat, shifting in and leaning over - 

Bruce meets him over the gearbox, leaning into the hand on his cheek as he kisses Jim. 

Jim is _warm_ , firm, and his lips are chapped against Bruce's, stubble rasping against his chin. Bruce belatedly brings up a hand to curl around Jim's neck, his fingertips landing in soft hair. Jim pulls away for a breath and Bruce chases him, indulging in another kiss that lasts for only seconds but feels like minutes. 

When they separate, Jim's blushing and Bruce's cheeks feel hot. His lips are tingling. 

Jim clears his throat, his hand dropping from Bruce's cheek to smooth down his shirt. Bruce reluctantly retracts his hand as well, running it through his hair instead, a nervous habit. 

"So uh, we still on for next time?" Bruce asks. Jim barks out a laugh and Bruce can't help but mirror his grin. 

"How's Saturday sound?" 

"It sounds perfect." 

"Okay. You - You have a good night, Bruce." And this time when Jim leaves the car, Bruce doesn't feel regret. 

"You too, Jim," he says with a wave, and waits for Jim to get inside his house. 

Bruce brushes his fingers against his still-tingling lips and smiles against them. 

\-- 

It's a surprisingly sunny morning the next day, slanted rays of dawn light shining through the gaps in the curtains. It filters over the bedsheets in wavering stripes, casting neatly over the second pillow in the bed. Jim instinctively shuts his eyes as he yawns and stretches, reaching down to rub his knee before swinging his legs out of the bed. While he dresses, he glances at the unused side of the bed and idly wonders what Bruce would look like there, a soft touch of sunshine on his stupidly handsome face. 

_Not the time, Jim_ , he reminds himself, although as he emerges into the kitchen to make himself coffee, he can't help but play last night back in his head, smiling to himself at the memory. The coffee is a welcome addition to his system - a luxury he tries to enjoy every morning before he has to face the rough black tar at the police station. 

Thankfully, though, today is a day off for him, which is why he sets down his mug to cool and wanders outside. His front garden is very plain, just grass and a wide paved path. The rubber bottom of his cane thuds softly against the concrete as he walks over to his mailbox to sort out the junk mail from yesterday. As predicted, all of it is destined for the kitchen bin. 

"Well, well, you were out late last night," a voice says. Gordon stifles his smile and turns to see a pair of eyes peeking over the fence, complete with playfully wiggling eyebrows. 

"Good morning, Nancy," he says, and Nancy stands up to her full height then, grinning at him over the fence as she rests her arms on the top of it. 

"He looked nice," Nancy continues, resting a hand on her chin. "And oddly familiar, hm." She dramatically taps her lips with a finger, as if trying to place a face. 

"I don't know what you're talking about," Jim says gruffly, leaning on the mailbox. Nancy's eyes twinkle mischievously. 

"You haven't had a date in a _while_ , Jim," she points out. "And then you come home with _Bruce Wayne_?" 

"Shut up." Jim glances away so she doesn't see the flush that creeps up his neck. 

Nancy, as she always has, notices straight away. 

"Ooh, so it's interesting, then?" She asks. "I never thought I'd see you with the likes of him." 

"It's not what you think," Jim says, levelling her with a cool stare. 

"I think maybe I should have filed for alimony," Nancy says with a laugh. Jim can't help laughing along with her. 

"No wonder I stopped doing it for you," she adds, still giggling. "I'm not literally Gotham's most eligible bachelor." 

"Yada yada, always talkin' like it was my decision," Jim teases back. "How's Lucy?" 

"Still gorgeous, still great," Nancy replies. "You still coming to the wedding?" 

"I wouldn't miss my ex-wife's new wife's big day for anything." Jim chuckles as Nancy playfully shakes her head. 

"I always knew you liked her better than me," she says faux-wistfully, placing a dramatic hand on her heart. 

"She's _my_ sister, Nancy." 

Nancy waves a dismissive hand to the sound of Jim's loud laughter. The dawn's light hardens into daylight, and both Jim and Nancy glance expectantly down the road, waiting for the tell-tale ring of the paperboy's bike. 

"He's late," Jim comments, glancing at his watch. 

"He's new. Think he's still a little lost. He's nice, though. You know what, you should bring Bruce to the wedding!" 

"Nancy, it was _one_ date." 

"Jim, we were married for twenty-five years. I know when you're in over your head." 

Jim automatically reaches for his trouser pocket, but there's no cigarettes in this pair. Nancy tracks the movement and just cocks an eyebrow. _See?_

"He's coming over Saturday," he says. Just then, his phone buzzes in his pocket. He tugs it out just enough to see the notification - it's Bruce, apparently also an early bird. Jim supposes he has to be, to be at Wayne Tower for eight. 

_Morning, Jim_

A pause while Bruce types again. 

_I really liked last night_

_Hope you did too_

Jim can't help the smile that tugs at his lips as he quickly unlocks his phone to respond. 

_> I had a great time_

_:D_

_Gotta go though, board meeting_

Jim wishes him a nice day and a bike bell rings out farther down the street. 

"Looks like he finally found his way," Nancy says, looking past Jim to the street. 

"Mhm," Jim agrees, pocketing his phone. 

"Something up at work?" She asks, nodding to the pocket. 

"Sure," Jim dodges, and Nancy smiles knowingly. 

"Well, he's always welcome for dinner, if he wants," she says, and Jim just smiles in response. 

With a screech of new brakes and all the grace of a foal, the paperboy careens to a stop outside Jim's mailbox, twisting to grab a newspaper while he speaks. 

"Hello! Hi, sorry - " the paperboy stops to turn to Jim and all the colour drains out of his face. " - oh, sorry Commissioner," he says. 

"Don't sweat it," Jim says with a pleasant smile, holding out his hand. The paperboy hands him the paper and reaches back for a second one to give to Nancy, who steps out of her garden to take it from him. 

"Thank you," she says kindly, and waves at Jim before walking back inside. 

"You're welcome!" The paperboy calls belatedly, hurriedly trying to strap his bag to his back more securely. 

"Hey, kid," Jim calls before the boy can take off. The paperboy freezes in place, blinking rapidly. 

"Am I in trouble?" 

"No, of course not," Jim says, chuckling quietly to ease the kid's nerves. "And please, call me Jim. I just like to know who's doing the work around here." 

On a second look, though, Jim sees that the kid is older than the usual paperboys - a lot older, actually, probably the same age as Jim's kids. Post-college for sure. 

"You're a little old to be on the paper route, aren't you? What's your name?" He asks. He's used to gangly sixteen year-olds cycling down at dawn, trying to save up money for college. 

"Robin, sir," Robin says. "I just moved here, I'm uh, looking for a job." 

Jim nods, pushing off of the mailbox to walk towards the bike. 

"Well, Robin, it's nice to meet you," he says, offering his hand and a friendly smile. Robin relaxes as he shakes his hand, a genuine smile lighting up his face. 

"It's nice to meet you too, sir," he replies. 

"You let me know if anyone gives you trouble, okay?" Jim adds. "Now go on, don't let me make you late." Robin laughs.

"Will do." He mock-salutes Jim before continuing on his path, cycling down to the next mailbox. 

Jim idly unrolls the newspaper as he heads back inside. His coffee's gone cold on the counter, so he dumps it and starts getting out a pan to make breakfast, but his hands pause when he reads the headline. 

_WAYNE ENTERPRISES TO BREAK GROUND ON ARKHAM RENOVATION PROJECT_

And below that, a photo of Bruce and his new board, all bright smiles and polite poses. Below that, the details on the ceremony, which happens to be this morning, actually, right at - 

"Fifteen minutes," Jim notes, glancing at his watch. He chuckles to himself as he brings out a plate. "Board meeting, my ass." 

\-- 

True to his word, Bruce Wayne does help clean up Gotham. Arkham is in the start of renovation works, the GCPD have beginning blueprints for new anonymous tech, and Wayne Enterprises is booming with business. Security is sorely needed, it seems, after the massive clown attacks. 

Right now, though, Bruce has one very important thing he wants to sort out first. 

"Hey Alfred," Bruce says. "I want to talk to you." 

"That's funny," Alfred says with a wry smile. "I just came to talk to _you_." 

"By all means, go first." 

"No, no, you first, Bruce." 

Bruce clears his throat only semi-awkwardly. "Well, Alfred, seeing as I am...retired from...extracurricular activities, I was...wondering if there was much need for help around this place." He gestures at the room. "I mean, it's just me right now, and you've always been family to me, you know - " 

"Bruce, just spit it out," Alfred says patiently. 

"Retire with me, Alfred," Bruce says. "You can still live in the manor, or on the grounds at least." 

Alfred bows his head to hide a warm little laugh. Bruce tilts his head. 

"Alfred?" He asks, stepping closer. "Are you okay?" 

"It's funny, Bruce," Alfred replies, lifting his head again. There's a mischievous twinkle in his eye. "I was just coming to give you _this_." He brings his hand out from behind his back to present a smooth cream envelope, _Master Bruce_ written on it in neat, if old-fashioned, cursive. 

Bruce takes it with a quizzical look, breaking open the modest seal to unfold the letter within. 

"It's my resignation," Alfred says. "I thought it might be time for a change of pace, as it were. But I would like to accept the offer of residing here." 

"Of _course_ , Alfred, you're my closest family," Bruce says, setting the letter down to embrace Alfred in a hug. It seems to take Alfred off-guard for a moment, but then he relaxes into it. 

After that, Bruce can turn his attention to other pressing matters - urgently, the public press conference he's holding tomorrow about his new projects, but more immediately, what to do with his downstairs. 

Tiffany accepts the formal job offer to work for Bruce, which is mostly red-tape paperwork so there's no legal issue with either of their tax returns. But unlike her father, she works in the Batcave now, designing and modifying some of Batman's tech to figure out how to mass-produce it for the GCPD - especially the smart scanning technology in his gloves and mask and the thermo-detection contacts Alfred made for him. After that, she'll work on toning down the shock and stun devices to make them safer as police restraint methods. 

"You know, I'm gonna need help with this," Tiffany says when Bruce visits, hunched over and tinkering with a suit gauntlet. She looks at him to raise a meaningful eyebrow. "It's a big job."

"I know, Tiffany," Bruce says, idly tracing a finger over the holographic table. "I promise, once things with the press cool down, I'll start looking for help." 

"Okay," she says with a shrug, smiling underneath her goggles. "As long as you realise I can't do this all myself." 

"You're doing great." Bruce pats her kindly on the shoulder and turns to make his way back upstairs, Tiffany's music blaring from the Batcomputer speakers. 

Bruce grins to himself as he steps into the lift. It feels better than he thought it would to leave the Batcave as a legacy to someone else. 


	2. Second Month: Part 1

On a scale of one to ten of things Bruce wants to do again, the press conference rates at a solid negative two. And that's saying something. Even the breaking ground ceremony last week rated a solid five. 

Although probably because that was a celebration ceremony. This conference, however, is atonement and announcements. 

"Hello everyone," Bruce says, leaning gently forward to reach the mic. "Hello, I hope you're all having a nice day. Thank you for introducing me, Mr. Ramirez - " he looks and nods at his marketing manager on stage left - "and thank you all for coming." 

He takes a breath and adjusts the notes on the podium, but he already has it all memorised. 

"I'm just going to jump right into it, if that's okay," he says to a murmur of agreement. Cameras flash and reporters scoot closer on their chairs, desperate for news from the elusive Bruce Wayne. 

"I trust you have all read the recent police report that has been published," he starts nervously. "Detailing my involvement of tracking and subduing Joker and Quinn. I was under intense pressure from both sides, as reported, and before I announce anything here, I'd like to apologise to Gotham for how badly my actions hurt the city. I wish I could have prevented it." 

He pauses a moment to let that sink in. 

"And now I'd like to take a moment of silence for all the lost citizens, if that's okay with the crowd."

Everyone nods and bows their head for a long, sombre minute. No cameras flash. 

"I'd like to thank the heroes of Gotham," Bruce says. "I'd like to thank the GCPD, the EMTs, the emergency service workers, the utilities workers, and every single community that came together in some way to help heal the city." 

Another pause before he moves on. 

"To that effect, I'd like to formally announce some new projects the Wayne company is taking on. One that you already know is the renovation of Arkham Asylum, a long overdue process to transform it so it can deliver high quality healthcare to anyone who needs it. This will be led and funded by the Martha Wayne Foundation, an organisation dedicated to improving the quality of life of every citizen in Gotham." 

He sees every reporter's ear prick up at the omission of _Thomas_. 

"Another one," he continues, "is my pledge to help fund and support the rebuilding of Gotham General. Alongside that, Wayne Enterprises pledges to fund and support the building of another hospital in Gotham." He pauses for reporters to scribble down notes. "I'm afraid that since that venture is still in the works, I cannot answer any questions about it yet, but we will update you when we have more details." 

"Finally, a promise to support the GCPD, emergency clinics, and fire departments as a whole. As public services, they are sorely underfunded, and I want to help change that." 

He clears his throat and pretends to straighten his notes. 

"Thank you for listening," he says, smiling for the cameras. "That's all I have to announce today, and I'm happy to take any questions you may have." 

Fifty hands immediately shoot up. 

"Yes, yes, you," Bruce says, signalling a reporter. 

"Hello sir. Hannah Bellum, Gotham Gazette. When you spoke about your parents' foundation, I noticed you left out your father's name. Is this an official change in the foundation's name? Why make the change, sir, and why make it now?" 

"Hello Hannah," he replies. "Yes, that is an official change in the foundation name. I have taken Thomas's name off of any organisation associated with Wayne Enterprises, as he does not and will not ever represent the values we uphold. We have only formally changed it recently simply because of time. I was a bit busy being kidnapped, as you know." 

"Thank you sir," Hannah says with a smile that Bruce shares. "Do you have any comments on the change, sir, personally?" 

Bruce starts to say no, but then stops himself. 

"I do, actually," he says. He can practically see Ramirez tense out of the corner of his eye. 

"My father was a criminal," he says. "I do not condone his actions, and I want to reverse their damage. I know that's not possible for everyone, but I am here today to promise the public that I will try my best to do so." 

He has notes on the podium below him, but he doesn't need them. 

"I was ashamed to learn of my father's true nature, and the horrendous atrocities he committed. I am ashamed that my place of privilege and fortune stems from criminal activity. I would only shame myself more if I was to let his name remain on an organisation of dignity and grace - an organisation that embodies the spirit of my mother, and nothing of my father. That is why I am determined to funnel that money back into the community." 

"Thank you," Hannah says again, and sits down. 

Bruce picks another hand. 

"Sir! Hello sir, Clark Kent, Daily Planet. Where will this new hospital be? Will it be a specialised hospital or another general? Will it be named after you?" 

"Mr. Kent, I already said I cannot answer any questions about the new hospital," Bruce says through only slightly gritted teeth. Clark beams innocently at him. "But I can tell you that it will not be named after me or my family. I will be leaving the name to the city to decide." 

"Who decided that?" 

"I did. I do not want my name or my family's on it. That is all I can say for now, thank you." Bruce glares at subtly as he can, briefly wishing he also had laser vision. 

"Thank you, Mr. Wayne," Clark says, and sits down with a smug smile on his face. 

Another set of hands shoot up. Bruce points at one at random. 

"Hi, Mr. Wayne. Terry Juniper, Gotham Nightly. How are you going to help the emergency services? What plans do you have in place for them?" 

"Hello, Terry. The short term plans for emergency services are mostly to help fund them so they can manage and buy any updated equipment and personnel they need. In the long term - and this applies to all workers, not just emergency service - to petition and work to raise the minimum wage for all citizens." 

"Thank you sir, that's very honourable." 

"It's the least I can do, Terry. Hello, yes, you in the second row." 

"Hi sir. Maria Muñez..." 

\-- 

"So far, pretty normal," Jim says. "If a bit fuckin' rich." 

"Thanks," Bruce deadpans, closing the front door behind him. Jim flashes him a shit-eating grin. 

"No problem," he says, idly tapping his cane on the soft carpet. He had asked Bruce if he would ever get a tour of the full manor, because despite knowing Bruce's secret, he is still desperately curious to know _where_ Batman operated from. He figures it's either a discreet room beside Bruce's, or hidden up in one of the towers. Batman could definitely grapple up there easily, and it would be hard for any enemies to potentially find and reach. 

He takes a moment to look around the lobby as Bruce comes up beside him, easily slipping a hand into his. It's a huge space, with red carpeting leading from the front doors to up the stairs. It's a regal red, with black and gold trim, and fits oddly well with the white-and-gold walls, the ostentatious columns. Mahogany balustrades sweep up either side of the grand staircase, curling around at the top to form the protective bannisters around the second floor. Bruce rubs his neck, the tips of his ears flushing pink as Jim looks around. Usually, Bruce looks like he fits right in with the manor, expensive and suave, but right now, he just looks a little embarrassed. 

"This is...the lobby," he says awkwardly. "The whole ground floor is usually...just for public events. I don't use it much otherwise." 

"I've been to some of those," Jim replies, squeezing Bruce's hand. He remembers the GCPD events held here, and the few charity ones he's had to show up to as acting Commissioner, and then as Commissioner. Never really his sort of thing, though, always too fancy and too formal, but he distinctly remembers how Bruce always somehow managed to make time for everyone on the floor. 

_"Evening, Commissioner_." 

_Jim turns to see the source of the voice, and almost does a double-take, tightening his grip on his crystal tumbler of scotch._

_"Good evening, Mr. Wayne," he says, feeling oddly formal. Bruce laughs, easygoing and airy._

_"Please, how many times have I asked you to call me Bruce?" He's dressed past the nines, probably up to the twelves, Jim thinks, and wonders if he looks shabby in his uniform, which is remarkably drab compared to the twinkling cufflinks on Bruce Wayne's sleeves._

_"Eh, feels too casual for this party," Jim jokes. His fingers itch for a cigarette. Bruce's eyes flick down to them and back, as if he's reading Jim's mind, as if he_ knows _._

_"There's a patio out the back," Bruce says. "Care to join me?"_

Ah, what the hell _, Jim thinks._

_"After you, Bruce," he says, feeling just a little illegal for using the man's first name._

_Bruce leads him calmly through the crowd, pausing to shake hands and smile, each one crinkling the corners of his eyes. Jim thinks it's more than a little attractive, and as he watches Bruce smoothly disengage with a lady clearly trying to flirt with him, he wonders why Gotham's most eligible bachelor is still single._

Traumatic childhood _, he figures._

_Their route to the patio takes them behind the stairs, and through a couple of locked doors that Bruce opens with a small silver key tucked in his inside jacket pocket._

_"Not for public access," he says with a wink. The room he opens the door to seems to be a small dining area, with a modest wooden table in the corner with leather booth seating - Jim's startled to see Bruce's butler there, calmly reading a newspaper. He struggles to remember his name - Arthur? Albert? Al-something, that's for sure. Al-butler glances up nonchalantly at them._

_"Evening, Bruce," he says. "How's the gala going?"_

_"It's going wonderfully, Alfred," Bruce replies warmly._ Alfred _, that's it. "I'm just taking Commissioner Gordon here out for a breath of fresh air."_

 _"Mhmm," Alfred hums, and fixes Bruce with a stern,_ knowing _look._

_"It's just to talk, Alfred," Bruce says with something in his voice that Jim can't place. But he can definitely feel the silent conversation Bruce and Alfred seem to be having with just their eyes._

_"If you say so, Bruce."_

_"Thank you, Alfred."_

_"Have a nice evening, Commissioner," Alfred says to Jim with a pleasant smile. Jim finds himself returning it in full, even giving a little nod before Alfred turns back to his newspaper._

_Bruce then guides him to the door on the opposite side of the room and opens it to step out into fresh, cool air. Jim steps out onto the sensible brick patio and sits down on one of the metal chairs when Bruce gestures to one. He shifts to try and subtly adjust the thin cushion underneath him, and Bruce leans one refined elbow on the matching metal table between them._

_"I know it's uncomfortable," Bruce says, nodding to Jim's chair. "Sorry. We put the good cushions away for winter."_

We _. Jim knows it's a small difference, but he was expecting Bruce to say_ Alfred _._

_But somehow it sounds...right, coming from Bruce. Jim's always suspected in some small way that Bruce is different from the other rich businessmen in Gotham, but he's never been able to quite pin it down._

_"You mind if I light up?" Jim asks, setting his tumbler down and raising a pack of cigarettes instead._

_"Please," Bruce responds. He looks out at the darkened gardens beyond them, a clear night sky rolled out above the manor. Jim cups his palm around the flame of his lighter and his cigarette catches easily._

_The nicotine is a welcome warmth through his lungs, and he politely blows out his smoke away from Bruce. It spirals in the yellow lighting of the patio, and is swept away by the wind a moment later._

_"Thanks," Jim says. "I needed that."_

_"No, thank_ you _," Bruce says, turning away from the garden. "I needed a break from in there."_

_Jim huffs out a laugh. "So you came to me?"_

_"Yeah," Bruce says, with a touch of odd fondness in his voice - then he seems to remember who he's speaking to, and quickly clears his throat. "Yeah. Needed some normalcy. These events get way too stuffy for my taste."_

_"Not sure I'm normalcy," Jim says, and takes another drag of his cigarette. "You sure you mean to be speaking to me?" He teases._

_"I can trust you, Commissioner," Bruce says with a warm smile, just for him, that reaches his eyes, unlike the ones he gave out so freely indoors. And it's not a question, what he says. He says it likes he knows. Like he_ knows _Jim._

 _Jim appreciates it. Bruce seems like a completely different man out here - still smartly dressed, still charming, still handsome, still_ oozing _money, but somehow...more human, among all that. As if millionaire is just a mask. More human, and a little bit weary, like his suit weighs more than just fabric. Jim finds himself wondering what sort of quiet burdens Bruce carries, what sort of man he is under the mask._

_He knows all about the Wayne murders - no one in Gotham could miss such a high-profile case - and at the time, he knew they left a son behind, but Jim was just a patrol cop back then, fresh to the force at twenty-two, and although he was part of the squad that blocked the roads for a five block radius around the bodies, he never went near Crime Alley. Bruce went under legal care of their family butler and after statements and testimony, the GCPD handed him off to CPS. There were a couple of social workers assigned to him, and a rotation of therapists, and that was the last Jim heard of Bruce before the case officially closed._

_"Thank you," Jim settles on eventually. "I'm glad I come off like that."_

_"It's not - " Bruce starts, then catches himself. "You're the best officer in Gotham," he says instead. "You've done a lot for the city."_

_"Not by myself," Jim says, but more quietly. He takes a sip of his scotch. Bruce waits to let him gather his next words._

_"Not by myself," Jim repeats. "Batman is a huge help."_

_"You're the one that calls him, though," Bruce says. "You're the one that gives him the information, that gives him the tips - he's the one helping_ you _, Jim, not the other way around."_

_Jim pauses, surprised at the sudden defence of his reputation. And the remarks about Batman._

_"At least, that's what it looks like," Bruce adds, avoiding Jim's eyes. "I wouldn't know."_

_"Batman's a hero to this city," Jim says._

_"He wouldn't be without you," Bruce says with equal conviction, now meeting his eyes with a hard stare._

_Unsure what to say that wouldn't be breaking confidentiality, Jim just nods in acknowledgement._

_"Sorry," Bruce says a moment later. "I know you didn't come out here to talk about work."_

_"I don't mind, actually," Jim says, and is a little surprised to find he really_ doesn't _. "Better than being hounded about leads in there. Or thanked for stuff that my officers did, not me."_

_Bruce laughs at that, genuine and remarkably pleasant, and Jim sucks on his cigarette to hide the way his cheeks suddenly heat._

_"You can take off," Bruce offers. "Leave through the gate down there." He points into the blackness. Jim rolls the tumbler in his fingers, considering. Then he finishes it off._

_"I might take you up on that, Wayne," he says, sharing Bruce's smile. "Thanks for the drink," he says, tilting the glass towards Bruce. "That label's one of my favourites."_

_"My pleasure," Bruce says, his smile growing a little wider. "I'll remember that for next time."_

Back in the present, Bruce squeezes Jim's hand in return, gently leading him to one side of the lobby, where mahogany doors are lined up in even spaces. 

"Meeting rooms?" Jim guesses. Bruce shrugs. 

"Mostly," he says. "Couple lounges and stuff, too, and all boring." 

"Bruce Wayne, boring?" Jim teases. "I've never known that to be true." 

"It can be," Bruce jokes back. "I've been known to be boring." 

Bruce leans in to kiss him, then, with a soft press of lips that makes Jim warm all over. He lets go of Bruce's hand to rest on the small of his back instead, pulling him for another gentle kiss. Bruce makes a quiet, contented noise against him. 

"Anything interesting down there?" Jim asks, flicking his cane up to point past the main staircase. 

"Kitchen and dining is in the back," Bruce explains. "And there's a garage on the right." 

"A garage? Don't know why I'm surprised." 

Bruce chuckles. "It's not what you're thinking." 

"Prove it." 

Bruce walks them over to a plain door tucked in the corner of the manor, and opens it with no further ado. Jim's mouth falls open at the sight inside. There's eight cars lined up neatly inside, all pristine and polished - sleek greens, dark blues, bright, shining metal accents, and Jim shuts his mouth to look over at Bruce. 

"Not what I'm thinking?" He says dryly. "Of course you have a whole fleet of - " he looks again at the cars, trying to identify a couple, and then frowns. "A fleet of old British cars? Didn't take that as your style." 

"They're Alfred's," Bruce replies with a stifled laugh. "He likes to fix up cars. And he's partial to the British variety." 

Jim looks at Bruce, and then to the cars again. " _All_ of these?" 

"Yeah. He's got a workshop through there." Bruce points to a set of double doors. "He's been doing it for years. Decades, probably." 

"Wow," Jim says, impressed. "Do they run?" 

"He likes to take them out for a spin every now and then," Bruce says. "Now, upstairs?" 

"Do I have to take the stupid staircase?" Jim asks, raising an eyebrow as they walk away from the garage. 

"You do have to take the stupid staircase. Sorry. I never put a lift in because, well, because the upstairs is private," Bruce says, trailing off at the end. "It was always just me and Alfred. I always rope it off for events." 

He pauses, and then grins. "I could always carry you." 

"Oh no you fuckin' don't," Jim warns. "Batman or not, you are _not_ carrying me up the stairs." 

He determinedly starts heading up them, one hand on the balustrade and the other on his cane. Bruce laughs quietly at his warning and quickly follows him. 

He doesn't say anything else, but he does place a steadying hand on Jim's lower back, a silent reminder that he's got him. Jim appreciates it. 

"My room is on that side," Bruce says when they get to the top, gesturing to the left wing. "Alfred is on that side." To the right. 

"I really fucking underestimated this place," Jim comments. "How many rooms are there again?" 

"I decline to answer." 

"Exactly." 

"Well...it means there's plenty of guest rooms," Bruce says slowly. "If you ever wanted to stay over." 

"Stay over?" Jim teases, but his heart skips a beat at Bruce's next words. 

"Or you could stay in my room." Bruce's cheeks tinge a little red when he says it - Jim coughs to cover the suddenly very dry mouth he has. 

It's not like he hasn't _thought_ about it. Bruce is a very handsome guy, and Jim is very attracted to him, but neither of them had made a move in that direction yet - a combination of respect and a lack of communication of how much they both _want_ to. 

"You could at least buy me dinner first," Jim jokes weakly. Bruce swallows thickly, his eyes tracing carefully over Jim's face. 

"What if I make it instead?" He asks. 

"That - " Jim pauses to cough awkwardly again, suddenly intensely aware of how close they are. "That would definitely get you somewhere." 


	3. Second Month: Part 2

Bruce's shoulders hit the wall with force, a moan slipping out of him as his fingers work at the buttons on Jim's shirt - Jim grunts against his mouth and shifts to kiss down his neck, his facial hair dragging roughly over sensitive skin. His hands tear at Bruce's crisp white shirt, although now it's more ruffled and untucked and wrinkled than anything else. 

They never did finish the tour. 

"Always wanted to mess your suit up like this," Jim says under his ear, and Bruce groans embarrassingly loudly, threading his fingers into Jim's hair and sliding his other hand down to his belt, bringing their hips together. They both gasp at the new friction, the sheer excitement of _this_ , _happening_ making Bruce's toes curl. 

Jim succeeds a moment later, carelessly tugging open Bruce's shirt, a couple buttons popping off, and coming back up to kiss him on the mouth, stealing all the air from his lungs. Bruce barely has a moment to recover before Jim is back on his jaw, dragging his teeth over the bolt and running his thumbs down Bruce's abdomen in a shivery trail. He pulls away briefly to glance down between them. Bruce follows his gaze and flushes at the obvious bulges. 

"God," Jim spits, and kisses Bruce's neck. "Fuck, I can't - I can't kneel, but - " 

Bruce whines quietly. "That's _hot_." 

Jim sucks in the sharpest inhale, his hands pausing for a moment before they're back to scrabbling at Bruce, harder now, snapping his belt open. 

"Bed," Jim rasps, looping his fingers in Bruce's beltloops and tugging him over. 

They collapse in a graceless heap on the bed, elbows knocking and knees thumping as they rearrange - Bruce ends up underneath Jim, undoing the last of his buttons as Jim kneels above him. 

"Ow, my knees," Jim says with a wince, and Bruce pauses. 

"Do you want to lie down?" He asks, and Jim shakes his head. 

"Not yet," he says, and leans over to shift his weight onto his hands, dropping down for a fierce kiss. Bruce reaches up to feel Jim's upper arm flex and moans quietly at the feeling as Jim lowers onto his elbow. 

Bruce jumps at the hand that appears on his exposed abdomen, the sides of his shirt flung open on either side, and Jim pauses in kissing enough to cock an eyebrow at him as the hand ghosts down, and _down_ , to brush over Bruce's embarrassingly obvious bulge. 

"Can I?" He asks, and Bruce nods fervently, his face burning hot as Jim unbuttons and unzips him, shoves his briefs down enough to free him. 

They both groan when Jim wraps his hand around Bruce's cock, gently touching his thumb to the tip. Jim dips down to kiss him again, muttering something that sounds like _Jesus Christ_ against his lips. Before Bruce can gather himself, Jim's shimmying down the bed, transferring his weight onto his elbows as he plants kisses down Bruce's chest, down his middle. He glances up when he kisses down his happy trail, and Bruce props himself up onto his elbows to watch, transfixed at the sight of Jim at his hips. Jim's blushing, but that doesn't stop him from moving the last few inches down, until his lips are hovering over Bruce's hipbones. 

"Fuck," Bruce says, but it comes out strangled. Jim kisses his hip, follows the faint V until he reaches the base of Bruce's dick. Bruce only barely stops the instinctive buck his hips want to do. Jim _laughs_ when he notices, a faint, smug breathy thing that just makes Bruce's skin tingle where it touches. 

"D-Do you want a - " Bruce starts to reach to the bedside drawer, but Jim snorts. 

"You telling me Batman doesn't take care of himself?" He asks, and Bruce flushes, shrugging. 

"He does," he admits. "I'm clean." 

"Then I'm good," Jim says. "And I've been single for fuckin' years, so you have nothing to worry about." 

"Really? Wouldn't have struck you as the loner sort," Bruce teases breathlessly - Jim wraps a hand around him in retaliation, and Bruce loses all his smugness in a breathy moan. 

"I can stop," Jim jokes, and Bruce cannot help the plea that leaves him. 

" _Please_ , Jim." 

Jim swears crudely to himself, shifting on the bed, and Bruce doesn't have to beg again for Jim to press his lips to his cock. He starts slow, a languid trail of kisses up the shaft and back down, loosening his grip to just a circle around the base to keep Bruce upright. Each touch sends shivers up Bruce's spine, his hands balling into fists when Jim starts slipping his tongue into the kisses, gradually making them wetter and wetter. Air brushes against wet, sending another sort of shiver through Bruce, and his mouth is open in a permanent pant, his chest heaving with the effort. 

When Jim finally opens his mouth around the head, Bruce lets out a loud moan, completely overwhelmed with the sensation. He shakes with the next slide of Jim's mouth, eyes glued to Jim's lips. He shifts his weight onto one elbow, just like Jim is doing, and reaches down to slip his hand into Jim's hair. Jim hums in agreement, sending a low buzz straight through Bruce's dick. Hair falls down into his eyes, mussed up from their activities, and Bruce clumsily pushes it out of the way, holding it in place as he tries to just fucking _survive_. Noises tumble unbidden out of his mouth, quiet gasps and pants and increasingly breathier groans. Jim grunts around him and bobs steadily, using his hand to stroke the rest of Bruce at the same time. 

Bruce hasn't gotten a blowjob _this_ good in fucking _forever_ , and he's honestly starting to doubt how long he can last with this, with the _focus_ Jim's putting on him, with the hot, wet slides of his mouth, measured breaths through his nose, his tongue pressed up to the sensitive underside. It's a perfect mix of neat and sloppy, spit leaking down to slick Jim's hand as he sucks on the head - and _god_ when he pauses to suck Bruce swears he can see stars, his toes curling with a quiet _pop_. Jim doesn't help, either, making little humming noises or just moaning outright when Bruce raises his hips a little, and Bruce wishes he could touch Jim _so_ badly, lifts his eyes to see Jim's hips grinding into the bed in short little circles. 

"Jim, Jim, _fuck_ ," he gasps, breaks into a whine when Jim speeds up his hand in response. " _Ji-im_." 

Bruce continues to clumsily pull Jim's hair out of the way, trying to avoid tugging on it and failing when he suddenly clenches at it, so desperately, _desperately_ close to coming that it's almost embarrassing. Jim lets him roll his hips up in time, bobs in rhythm with him until Bruce is panting and moaning and falling apart, his whole body quivering with tensed muscles. Jim _must_ be able to tell he's close, and even glances up to meet his eyes, and Bruce _whimpers_. Jim's tongue drags over the head again and Bruce comes, barely babbling out a warning and weakly trying to tug Jim's head up, but Jim stays down. Bruce's head knocks back against the headboard with the intense shiver that runs through him, his hips bucking uncontrollably. Jim's name falls out of his mouth on a broken whine, tied up in desperate gasps for air. 

Jim slows his mouth and pops off when Bruce starts to wince a little, gently stroking with just his hand now in a slow movement that drags out all the little aftershocks running through Bruce and makes him swear. 

" _Fuck_ ," Bruce spits, and this time he slides hand from Jim's hair to fist in the shoulder of his shirt to urge him up. 

"Bruce, wait, I taste- " Jim protests, not quite closing the gap between their lips yet. 

"I don't care," Bruce says, and Jim kisses him, passionate, open-mouthed. And he does indeed taste like come, but Bruce couldn't care less right now, raking the nails of his free hand down Jim's side to make him shiver. 

"My knees," Jim murmurs, and Bruce nods, reaching down to tuck himself in before securing a shaky leg around Jim and semi-smoothly rolling them over, keeping the rotation on Jim's back to avoid exasperating his knees. 

Now it's Bruce's turn to tug Jim's shirt open and dive down to kiss his neck, pushing through the instinctive rest mode his body wants. He pauses to scrape up a couple marks on collarbone, and Jim wriggles rewardingly underneath him, grabbing at his clothes, his back, his arms, anything he can touch. 

"Let me?" Bruce asks, nodding downwards. Jim groans, dragging a hand through Bruce's hair to pull him down and kiss him. 

"I'm so damn close it's hardly worth it," Jim says against Bruce's lips. 

"I still want to," Bruce replies - Jim groans - and gathers Jim's wrist to press them down into the pillow either side of his head. He squeezes meaningfully. Jim's eyes widen, but he nods, sucking in a harsh breath through his nose. 

Bruce kisses him once more before trailing down his body - quicker than Jim did to him, because he can feel the little rocks of Jim's hips against him, can feel how tense Jim is against his lips. The hair on Jim's body brushes against his cheeks, his chin, his lips as he continues down chest and middle. He deftly undoes the belt and button and pauses to look up at Jim while he bites the zipper pull and slowly pulls it down over Jim's bulge. 

"Shit," Jim pants, his hands still where Bruce put them. "Bruce, god _damn_. Didn't know you were so filth - _ah_ \- so filthy." 

"I like to impress," Bruce says innocently, lifting his lips from Jim's cock. He kisses the fabric again and then tugs Jim's underwear down, wrapping a hand around him. Jim jumps a little at it, breathing out hard through his mouth, and Bruce can't resist licking the trace of slick around the head. 

Bruce doesn't waste his time teasing - he spits on his palm and slides down on Jim as soon as the man lets out a soft groan, matching the pace of his hand to his mouth and quickly building speed. Jim lightly rolls his hips and Bruce moans around him, an enthusiastic yes. He doesn't bother trying to keep it neat like he usually does, keeping his mouth slightly loose and his tongue easy so Jim can fuck his mouth more easily. Jim's not rough about it in the slightest, just desperate, rocking up in a steadily increasing rhythm and making noises that sound so _good_ , so _deep_ , they make Bruce's cheeks flush hot. 

One of the good things about Bruce's history of one-night stands is that it means he keeps some things in fairly good practice. And although he hasn't done it in a while, the motions come back to him easy, so when he swallows around Jim's dick and relaxes his throat, it's not a hardship. 

Bruce brings up his other arm and presses it down on Jim's hips, stalling him in his rocking. Jim makes a desperate little moan, his hips twitching up against Bruce's forearm, but Bruce just calmly holds him down. With a couple more bobs, he eases down Jim's cock - not all the way, he's not _that_ in-practice, but enough to more than meet his hand, for the head of Jim's cock to slip further back into his mouth. It brushes his throat and he forces down the gag reflex, his eyes watering when he repeats the move, up-down. 

"Bruce, Bruce - oh fuck, _Bruce_ , I'm - I'm - " Jim doesn't manage to get another word out before he jerks and comes, hitting the back on Bruce's throat and the rest landing on his tongue as he pulls back up to avoid choking. Jim finally moves his hands - Bruce is surprised at how long he kept them there - to cradle Bruce's cheek, thread through his hair, holding him as Bruce bobs slowly, sucking a little on the head to make Jim cry out with sensitivity. He gentles after that, popping off to lick at the mess on Jim's dick, and Jim swears quietly as he watches. He drops his head back to the pillow after a few moments, and Bruce keeps idly cleaning him up and very gently stroking until Jim starts to soften in his hand. 

Bruce politely tucks Jim back in and crawls back up his body - Jim suddenly pulls him down for a breathless kiss and Bruce's head spins with how thoroughly Jim kisses him, open-mouthed and lazy, no tongue. Eventually, Bruce's arms tire, and he drops onto his side beside Jim, who also rolls onto his side to face him. They don't talk for a few more lazy kisses. 

When they do finally pull away to catch their breath, they've both cooled down, belts unwound and discarded on the floor to make it slightly comfier while they're still in the bed. Jim rolls onto his back. 

"God, I've wanted to do that for _years_ ," Jim says, and Bruce blinks in surprise. 

"Years?" 

"Yeah, y'know." Jim waves a hand like he'd wave a cigarette. "Whole...Batman thing." 

"You wanted to sleep with Batman?" Bruce asks, smiling despite himself. Jim flushes a little and playfully slaps his shoulder. 

"And I finally did, so fucking take that." 

"I believe I _did_ take it." 

Jim laughs at that. It catches Bruce a little off-guard the way his heart skips a beat. 

"I always wanted you, too," Bruce admits, placing a hand on Jim's chest. "When I learnt you were single...I was so tempted." 

"Ha, that would've been something," Jim says, laying his hand over Bruce's. "Local vigilante and local cop and their sordid rooftop affair." 

"Hey, it would be a break from Bruce Wayne and his sordid rooftop affairs." 

They share a chuckle at that, and silence settles comfortably in the gaps between them for a few minutes. Bruce rubs his thumb in little sweeps on Jim's chest. Jim gently squeezes his fingers. 

"Hey Bruce, you know that you're...important to me, right?" 

"You don't have to get all sappy after sex," Bruce jokes, and Jim playfully pinches his hand. 

"I want to be," he says. "Anyway, y'know. I love you." 

Bruce doesn't know what he expected to be hearing it from Jim for the first time (even though he already _knows_ , he's known for a long time, they've both known for years), but with Jim usually so private and - not unaffectionate, because he definitely _is_ affectionate - not-sappy, Bruce supposes, he expected it to be...more formal, maybe. 

"I love you too, Jim." And this time when Jim kisses him, Bruce is blushing for a much more innocent reason. 

He decides that casual works just fine for Jim. 

\-- 

The next week is surprisingly calm for Bruce. The press quiet once Wayne Enterprises puts all its projects in motion - a careful operation that Bruce has left in the hands of Iman, his new COO. She emails him daily updates on every single one, and when he last checked this morning, they're all progressing as planned. 

Half of Arkham - officially renamed to the Twin Trees Institute - has been sealed off for demolition and renovation, and the Wayne funding also means they can hire more staff _and_ train them to the correct standards, something that often went overlooked in the old Arkham. 

Gotham General is also bulking up on staff and equipment as they rebuild, followed by the GCPD and the fire department, all of them bolstered with public and private support in their efforts to heal Gotham again. Avesta is still in talks with the public health board and the construction company for the new hospital, but she tells Bruce they've already agreed on location and schedule, they're just settling on exact facilities. 

With all that squared neatly away, he's decided to take this morning to take a walk around the manor gardens. There's gardeners working today, pruning and cleaning up what winter brought and preparing for the spring bloom - Bruce stops to chat to a few he knows, catching up with their personal news. It's good to talk to them again, after he's been so busy. Most of them have been around since he was a kid, and they're more family than friends to him, ruffling his hair even now and joking about how tall he's gotten and _oh it's so nice you've found someone good for you, Bruce_. 

When he eventually continues his walk, he starts to make his way around to the front of the manor - and finds an unusual sight before him. Alfred, standing by a hedge and talking with Rosie, the head gardener. Bruce frowns a little; Alfred's not supposed to be handling manor maintenance anymore. When Alfred glances up and notices him, he jumps a little - Bruce raises a questioning eyebrow and Alfred excuses himself to Rosie to walk over to Bruce. 

"Hello, Bruce," Alfred says. "Is there something the matter?" 

"No," Bruce answers. "But why are you out here? You don't need to check on grounds maintenance anymore." 

"I'm...not here for work," Alfred says, casting a glance back at Rosie. She waves cheerily at them. 

" _Alfred_ ," Bruce says, stretching out the syllables with a smile. "I didn't know you had an interest." 

"There's a lot you don't know about me, Bruce." Alfred says with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. "And now that I'm retired, I rather thought I might... _indulge_ in some personal things." 

"Much like you have," he adds pointedly. Bruce's cheeks heat. 

"Well, you know I support you, Alfred," he says. Then grins. "She's welcome to come over for dinner." 

It's Alfred's turn to go just a little pink, glancing away from Bruce - Bruce finds it impossibly charming on Alfred, and claps him on the shoulder. 

"I'm happy for you," he says. Alfred smiles at him. 

"As I am for you, Bruce," he replies. "Now kindly make yourself scarce." 

"Happily," Bruce agrees, and turns to walk back the way he came. 

His phone buzzes with a text when he's around the back of the manor again. 

_Wanna check out the new tech?_

\-- 

Tiffany hasn't changed the Batcave much. She's brought stuff over from her father's old lab in Wayne Tower, with Bruce's help, and now Lucius's workshop table takes up roughly half of the central platform, with the tools and parts of Tiffany's various projects scattered across it. 

Bruce steps off of the lift and heads to this table, where Tiffany is taking notes on a computer as she looks around curiously at the Batcave. 

"Oh, hey Bruce!" She says, startled when she notices him. "Man, you're warm." She types something on the computer. 

"Thermal contacts testing?" Bruce asks. 

"You know it. I think I almost got it down." Tiffany takes a minute to remove the contacts, blinking rapidly afterwards. "I'm fine-tuning the heat signatures for the GCPD. So they can tell more accurately how long ago something was heated." 

"That's awesome." 

Bruce is honestly amazed at Tiffany's work - not just with the contacts, but as the new Batman-esque figure in Gotham. She's set up the Batcomputer and made more surveillance drones to be able to help the GCPD if they call, for tracking movements or following someone that the GCPD are trying to chase. She's also been known to fiddle with traffic lights to keep civilian cars out of the way of high-speed chases, and equips all the drones with tranq darts in case they ever get close enough to shoot. 

Next, she's tackling the venture of turning Batman's personal tech into GCPD tech, which includes newer, sleeker designs made to fit on a police officer or in a car rather than integrate into the suit - which also means Tiffany can take out the chunk of code that connects all the software to the Batsuit and lay it out as a general function rather than specific. After that, Bruce has asked her to find a way to design and mass-produce a lighter version of his gauntlet for officers, as a both means of communication and smart-scanning. 

"But Bruce, as fun as this all is, I do want help," she says. "You gotta bring someone in. It's been two months since you retired." 

"I know," Bruce replies. "I know. Let me break ground on the new hospital first, and then I promise I'll put an ad out. I don't want it too publicised." 

"An ad from Bruce Wayne? Publicised? Never," Tiffany scoffs, but she's smiling. "I understand, Bruce, I just want to make sure you do." 

"I do. You've done great work so far, Tiffany." 

Bruce pauses to consider something. 

"When I put this ad out," he starts, "what kind of help do you need? What specialty?" 

"IT," Tiffany says immediately. "I'm good with code and all, but I'm not the best. I can do the drones and my suit and the little stuff, but it'll take me longer than I'd like to untangle the suit components' code from the suit itself. And I prefer building the stuff, anyway." 

"I can do that," Bruce promises. "But I have to warn you, it might be another couple of months." 

Tiffany nods. "Fine." 

"Focus on the stuff you like doing," Bruce says. "The suit parts can wait until you have a colleague." 

"Now _that_ , I can do," she says with a grin. "Now here, help me test these." 

"Gladly." 


	4. Third Month

Jim has had a lot to clean up in the months after Batman. For the first month, it was preliminary investigations, and then formal investigations in the second month, and only now, in the middle of the third month, has Jim been allowed to fucking close a case.

It's only Bane's file, but it's one step towards the rest. Freeze should be soon after, but Joker and Harley are gonna be loose ends for a while, at least until the GCPD can determine their whereabouts during the three weeks they were stocking up on weapons.

Jim still shudders at the memory of what happened with Bullock. He remembers talking to Batman about it, and it hits him in a whole new way that _Bruce is Batman_ , that _Bruce_ was the one that had to cut out the jack-in-the-box. That he's seen way more than Jim thinks.

"Here you go, boss," Renee says, setting down a coffee cup on his desk as she sips her own.

"God I love you, Renee," Jim groans, holding the coffee up to inhale the delicious scent of _good_ coffee. Not the GCPD shit - this is the _good_ stuff from across the road.

"You too," she jokes, clinking their cups together. "We got new footprints on Joker and Harley."

"You did?"

"Sighted in Metropolis. Found some of their graffiti, although it's mostly been tagged over. Paint samples match."

"Huh," Jim says, leaning back in his chair. His knees ache from where he's been sitting down all day. "Metropolis? That's far to go for some weapons. What is it, an hour by train?"

Renee nods, perching on the corner of his desk. Her new chief badge shines dully in the stark fluorescent lighting in Jim's office.

"Guess they knew they were hunted here," she says. "Thought it was worth moving."

"And risk the MPD coming down on their asses? No, something's off."

"I agree. I think it's either a misdirection or a failed set-up."

"See, this is why you're chief."

"Because I bring you good coffee?"

"Because you're always one step ahead. All right, I'll review the files. Can you go through the crime scenes again? There's gotta be something we're missing."

Renee chuckles at the praise, looking down at her coffee.

"Can do," she says. "And thanks, boss."

As Renee slides off of the desk, a knock comes on the door.

"Come in!" Jim yells, reaching for his cane in case it's something he needs to go investigate.

It's just Bruce who steps in, holding two brown paper bags and stopping in his tracks when he sees Renee.

"Oh, sorry, I didn't realise you were in a meeting," he says. "I'll just wait outside."

"No, no, come in," Jim says, waving him in. "We were just finishing up."

"Afternoon, Mr. Wayne," Renee says, straightening. Bruce laughs softly.

"Please, call me Bruce," he says, switching the bags to one hand and offering a warm handshake. "It's nice to see you, Chief Montoya."

When the door closes behind Renee, Bruce comes and sits down in one of the chairs opposite Jim's desk.

"I brought lunch," he says, lifting the two bags. Jim smells the food and Bruce laughs at the loud growl that escape Jim's traitorous body.

"Shut up," he hisses down at himself and gratefully takes the bag, tearing it open to find a heaping burrito. He rips the foil and bites into it with a groan, closing his eyes at the taste.

"Fuck me, I haven't eaten since breakfast," he says, muffled through burrito filling. Bruce eats his a bit more measured, giggling at Jim's voracious devouring.

"Sorry I'm late, then," Bruce says, glancing up at the clock. The hour hand sits halfway between two and three. "I would've come sooner, but I was caught in a meeting."

"No problem," Jim says between bites, shaking his head. "I've been stuck here all damn day trying to close Freeze's case."

Bruce pauses at that, shifting in his chair. Jim stops eating to lift an eyebrow.

"Do you know something?" He asks. Bruce had told him all about the Pact, Freeze, the airlock business, and how he helped Freeze, but the Agency took over after that, and the GCPD have been left to piece together a story about his disappearance for the public.

"Nothing helpful," Bruce says, hedging. "But there's something I never told you."

Jim sets down his burrito to level Bruce with a steady gaze.

"Bruce," he warns. "It's been almost three months."

"It doesn't help your case," Bruce assures him. Jim relaxes a little. "I'm not hiding anything about that."

"But," Bruce continues. "I went back to the subway after the Agency cleared out." He picks at a thread on the cuff of his suit, avoiding Jim's eyes.

"They had left Nora there," he says. "Freeze's wife."

"I was told there was nothing left in the subway."

"I - I took her containment chamber," Bruce admits quietly. "It was still powered, so I - I moved it to a medical facility."

Jim sits back in his chair. Bruce is right, this information is completely irrelevant to the case - Nora Fries has long been ruled as innocent civilian collateral damage, written off as just a body in the reports. Jim just assumed the Agency took her, maybe to give her a peaceful passing.

Or maybe to control Freeze, if they do have him.

"I'm also trying to find a cure," Bruce says. "But otherwise, she's just...kept there."

"So you don't know where Freeze is?"

"No," Bruce says regretfully. "I wish I did. But I...I promised him I'd take care of Nora. Didn't feel like I could break it. She's innocent, Jim."

"Hey, hey," Jim says, leaning forward to rest his hand over one of Bruce's on the desk. "Bruce, I know. We're not interested in Nora. But why are you telling me? You know I have to include this in the report now."

Bruce nervously licks his lips.

"I wanted you to know," he says. "Not - not _you_ , as Commissioner. Just you, as Jim."

Jim is struck by a wave of fondness for Bruce - to lay it out there so openly, willing to open himself up to police scrutiny - not that Jim suspects there'll be much - just to tell Jim the truth. And Jim can't help but soften at the implications of Bruce's actions, of saving an innocent, terminal civilian just because he promised to, no matter how much everyone else wrote her off. Because he wants to do right by the little people.

And Jim knows, inside, that Bruce had his own, intensely personal reasons for saving the innocent wife of a horrible man.

"I haven't heard anything about Freeze," Bruce adds. "I wish I could help you with that."

"Thank you for telling me," Jim says, gently rubbing his thumb over Bruce's knuckles.

"I'll make the statement later," Bruce promises. And lifts Jim's hand to brush a kiss over the back of it. "I love you."

"I love you too," Jim says, pitching his voice a little rougher to try and offset the new burning in his cheeks.

\-- 

Jim starts staying over at the manor more and more at the same time that Alfred starts spending less and less time in it - there's something ironic in there, but Bruce doesn't chase the thought. Instead, he reclines across a booth in the servant's dining quarters - although never used as such after Bruce's parents - watching Alfred carefully wrap a little bouquet of flowers.

"Are those from the grounds?" Bruce asks. Alfred gently ties twine around the stems to hold them together.

"Yes," Alfred replies calmly. "They're her favourites."

Bruce likes seeing Alfred's softer side - not that Alfred doesn't have an immense soft spot for him, but this is different. This is Alfred doting on someone he has no moral duty for, and Bruce loves the small smile that tugs at Alfred's lips whenever he speaks of Rosie.

"They're beautiful," Bruce agrees. Alfred rolls white paper around the flowers and secures it with a pale blue ribbon, slipping on a tag before tying it in a neat little bow.

"You know, I remember when you got flowers for your first date," Alfred says, grinning a little.

"Aw, come on, Alfred, don't embarrass me like this."

"Alice, I believe her name was. She was nice."

"I was _fifteen_."

"And already a remarkable young gentleman."

Bruce ducks his head as his face heats, reaching up to awkwardly rub the back of his neck.

"I learnt from the best," he says while Alfred gently fluffs his flowers, untangling petals so each bloom is nestled comfortably in the paper.

"Nonsense."

"I don't thank you enough, do I?"

"I'm always partial to gratitude," Alfred teases, a twinkle in his eye.

"Well then, thank you," Bruce says, sliding his legs off of the booth to plant his feet on the ground. "Actually, Alfred, there's something I want to ask you."

"What is it?" Alfred carefully sets his bouquet down and turns his warm gaze on Bruce, who shifts under the attention.

"I've um, been thinking of changing my middle name," he says, clasping his hands together on the table.

"A wise decision," Alfred agrees. Bruce blinks in surprise.

"Your father was a vile man," Alfred continues. "I always rather hated that he forced his name, and therefore legacy, onto you. You are not your father's son."

"I'm yours," Bruce says without missing a beat, and it's Alfred's turn to duck his head. Bruce doesn't miss the pleased little smile that forms on his lips.

"Were you thinking of removing your middle name?"

"I was thinking of _changing_ it," Bruce says, looking directly at Alfred for emphasis.

"To what?"

"Bruce A. Wayne."

He can see the moment Alfred realises that Bruce is serious. Still, he asks.

"A?"

"For Alfred. If you're - okay with it, that is," Bruce says in a rush, sitting back in the booth. "I won't if you don't want me to."

"I would be honoured, Bruce," Alfred says warmly, reaching over to squeeze his shoulder. Bruce lays his hand over Alfred's and squeezes back.

"Now go give Rosie your flowers." Bruce gestures to the bouquet with a smile. "I'm sure she'll love them."

\-- 

"I think we left off right about here," Jim says, stopping at the top of the staircase. "You threatened to carry me."

"I remember," Bruce says with a chuckle. "Where do you want to go next?"

"I've seen _your_ room," Jim teases, and walks forward to the dull hallway running along the back of the manor for the rooms that are against the back wall, more hidden from the stairs. The carpet is faded here and the the gold on the walls is chipped.

"What are these rooms?" Jim asks, gesturing down the hallway. The doors are plainer up here, just flat mahogany with less detailing.

"Storage, mostly," Bruce says. Jim notices that the door in front of them, in the middle of the hallway, has very dull gold inlaid around the frame.

"What's this room?" He nods to the slightly-fancier door and Bruce goes quiet beside him.

"That's, uh, that's my parents' old bedroom," Bruce says. Jim's smile immediately vanishes.

"Shit, I'm sorry," he says, glancing over at him. "I didn't realise."

"It's okay," Bruce says, smiling a little sadly. Jim nudges his free hand against Bruce's.

"You can see it, if you want," Bruce offers.

"Bruce, you know I can't do that," Jim says. "That's your business."

"I don't mind, Jim. It's mostly cleared out, anyway. Alfred took care of it...afterwards. I just keep it locked so guests don't stumble into it."

Jim can't deny he has a little morbid curiosity about what is kept in there, but he also has decency, and he can see the way Bruce's lips downturn ever-so-slightly at the corners.

"Keep it locked," Jim says quietly. Bruce squeezes his hand gratefully.

"Okay then, you got me," Jim continues as he leads them away from that quiet, faded hallway. "You do a good job of hiding the Batman stuff."

Bruce shoots him a puzzled look. "Batman stuff?"

"Yeah, you know, all the gadgets and shit." Jim follows Bruce down the stairs. "What is it, in one of those storage rooms? Are they locked, too?"

"Jim," Bruce says slowly, stopping at the bottom of the staircase. "Where do you think Tiffany works?"

"Wayne Tower," Jim says without missing a beat. "In Lucius's lab."

"Huh." Bruce turns on his heel and starts heading towards one of the parlour rooms on the ground floor. "You think she's helping the GCPD from Wayne Tower?"

"Where else?" Jim asks, and Bruce reaches up to a grandfather clock, opening the glass panel on the face. He winds one of the hands around until the time reads 10:48 - Jim checks his watch and frowns.

"It's two o'clock," he says.

"I know," Bruce says, and tugs the clock - _and a whole section of wall behind it_ \- open to reveal a set of stairs. "Follow me."

Jim snaps his mouth shut and follows, but thankfully it's only a short flight of stairs to a platform. When he steps on, Bruce presses his thumb to a fingerprint scanner and the entire platform descends - Jim stumbles with the sudden movement and Bruce smoothly catches him around the waist, holding onto him until the lift slows down and the chute gives way to a massive fucking cave.

"Hey Bruce?" Jim says.

"Yeah Jim?"

"What in the holy fuck is this."

"It's the Batcave," Bruce explains with a shit-eating grin.

"Names aren't your strong suit," Jim declares, and steps out into the _actual Batcave_.

"Hey Commissioner," Tiffany says from the workshop table in the central platform. Stairs (damn stairs) lead from it in all directions - one to the Batcomputer, one to the Batmobile, and one to a collection of glass display cases.

"You've just been hiding under Wayne Manor this whole time?" Jim asks.

"Well, I _do_ live here," Bruce says. "Found the cave when I was going through a diving phase."

"Diving phase?"

"The water down there," Bruce points to the start of a little stream under the glass cases, "leads out to the ocean, eventually. Took me about half an hour to swim into here. I was eighteen. I think I almost drowned at one point."

"So you just stumbled across a giant cave under your property?"

"Basically."

"That's ridiculous. Show me around."

"With pleasure, _Commissioner_ ," Bruce says, gently grabbing Jim's elbow to steer him down the steps to the central platform.

First, he shows Jim the Batcomputer, which is currently rendering one of Tiffany's redesigns, and points out some of the features and how Tiffany's using it to support GCPD in the field. Jim is honestly shocked at the level of tech hiding down here, and says so as Bruce leads him over (and up and down more stairs) to the car.

"Right now it's the Batmobile," Bruce says, taking a set of keys off a hook. "And then - " he presses a button and the Batmobile's outer plates smoothly flip over and lock back in to form a shiny red car that Jim recognises.

"Your fucking _car_ is the Batmobile?" He asks, only slightly outraged. "The car you drive around _everywhere_?"

"I don't have any others," Bruce says a little sheepishly. "Anyway, this one's my favourite."

" _I've ridden in this car_ ," Jim says.

"You have. In both versions of it."

Bruce flips the plates back and Jim has to admit it is a bit sexy.

Finally, Bruce shows him the glass cases - _trophy room_ , he says, and stays quiet while Jim explores the displays. He recognises the Harvey Dent election poster, but not the man on it. Below it is the half-mask that covered Dent's disfiguration. That was so long ago, back when Gordon was still just chief, that he wonders briefly if there was anything anyone could have done about Dent. He'll have to ask Bruce the personal story sometime.

"He was your friend, wasn't he?" He asks, glancing back at Tiffany. "I remember you backing his campaign."

"She can't hear us over here," Bruce says. "And he used to be. Until Victoria got to him."

_Sorry for your loss_ , Jim wants to say on reflex, but it doesn't feel appropriate. Bruce doesn't seem to mourn Dent.

To the left of Dent's case is a pair of broken goggles.

"Catwoman," Bruce supplies. "Or as I knew her, Selina."

"I remember," Jim says gruffly. Almost damn caught her as well.

He moves on to the Penguin's mask and monocle, to the right side of Dent. Next to it is Lady Arkham's mask and staff, and Jim doesn't miss the way Bruce reaches up to his ear, rubbing the notch in it.

"That her work?" He asks, jerking his chin to Bruce's ear.

"What? Oh, yeah," Bruce says, as if he's just noticed where his hand is. "She was...not fun."

"I doubt it."

The other wall holds more mementos - Riddler's cane, Bane's mask and venom gun, Mr. Freeze's goggles and ice grenade, Quinn's belt and (thankfully cleaned) mallet, and a Joker bomb. Jim doesn't comment on these. He doesn't wish to revisit them, and neither does Bruce, judging by how he doesn't follow Jim over to them.

"You got a lot of shit in here," Jim says, cracking a smile to cheer Bruce up. "You ever hear of spring cleaning?"

"That's where I toss out anything gathering dust, right?" Bruce replies, raking his eyes up and down Jim. Jim snaps his cane against Bruce's ankle and Bruce laughs with a wince, leaning down to rub his ankle.

"Get a room!" Tiffany yells.

"Sorry," Bruce calls back, but he's smiling again, no longer born down by the memories in the cases.

"And I guess that's the tour," Bruce says to Jim. "Anything else you'd like to see?"

Jim decides to say that answer in Bruce's ear, and is very rewarded by the way Bruce's entire face goes pink. Tiffany, thankfully, has already turned back to her work.

"That would be, um, upstairs," Bruce says, and offers out an arm. "You coming?"

Jim just raises an eyebrow. Bruce goes even _redder_.

_\--_

_When he heads upstairs for a desperately-needed cigarette, Jim doesn't expect to see Batman sitting on the edge of the GCPD roof._

_"Batman?" He says, a little stupidly. It's clearly the man himself, shoulders hunched forward rather than held high, the end of the cape spilling onto the concrete behind him like a pool of shadow._

_"Hello, Jim," Batman says. He doesn't turn around. Then he says something Jim never expected to hear, not unprompted._

_"Sorry."_

_When Jim doesn't respond, too shocked at first, Batman glances back, his eyes nothing more than white slits in the night._

_"I'll leave," he adds, and starts to push himself up - but then Jim remembers how his legs work and strides over to him._

_"Don't," he says, hesitantly placing a hand on Batman's shoulder. His fingers curl over armour. He sits down beside him. "What's wrong?"_

_Batman doesn't answer. Jim's lighter makes a_ click _that seems way too loud for the atmosphere._

_"Y'know, I arrested a couple of vandals earlier," Jim says, sticking his cigarette in the corner of his mouth. "For spray painting a school."_

_Batman still doesn't respond, but Jim's fine with that. He can feel hard armour pressing against his thigh where they're so close together. He looks out at the city ahead of them._

_"Just for a night," he continues. "It wasn't offensive, at least. But I know the governor sure wouldn't like it if I let them off."_

_He takes a long, slow drag. Smoke billows out of his mouth when he speaks next. Batman turns his head enough to look at him. Jim pretends he doesn't notice._

_"They're both college students, so I didn't put this on their record. Figure it's their chance to mess around a little." He finds himself smiling, a little wistfully._

_"Did you go to college, Batman?"_

_Batman's eyes narrow in question._

_"I went to Gotham City. I know, I know, cop with a community college education, I'm a stereotype," Jim says. "But they offered police training so...there I was."_

_"Met my ex-wife there," he adds with a fond smile. "Although that was only because I was dating her brother. Funny, huh?"_

_Batman doesn't reply, but Jim thinks he sees the hint of a smile out of the corner of his eye. He straightens his glasses and smoke brushes over his fingertips._

_"Anyway, that was ages ago," Jim says with a lazy wave, smoke trailing idly behind. "But it was fun."_

_He lets the silence of the city settle between them, the breeze brushing up under Jim's trouser cuffs and pressing his upturned jacket collar against his neck. Batman's cape ripples like a puddle. Nothing else on him moves._

_"I went to Gotham State," Batman says, tearing his gaze from Jim to look down at the street below. A little grin cuts into his cheek. "I know, a stereotype."_

_"I don't even know you," Jim scoffs. "How can you be a stereotype?"_

_Batman glances at him, something strange in the set of his jaw. Jim's never looked too closely at Batman before, scared that he'll recognise something, that he'll accidentally figure out who the man under the mask is. The anonymity helps, in a way, helps with police reports and with eyewitness statements - and it helps Jim move past the fact that there's a definite_ somebody _under there doing all the actions. A coward's thinking, maybe, but Jim never said he wasn't a little bit frightened of what it would mean if he could place who that somebody was._

_Batman reaches up to his cowl and presses a button on the side of his neck before returning his gaze to the streets._

_"My father put me through school," Batman says, but his voice is no longer thick and gravelly. It's...odd, to say the least. Batman, larger than life, and yet, somehow, just as human as Jim, now, sat on a roof's edge with a sad slant to his mouth._

_"I was mostly in it for the degree," he continues, and Jim looks away from him before any part of his subconscious can try and piece together the puzzle. "But I remember getting into some shenanigans." A huff of laughter. "I think I got tossed into the drunk tank once or twice."_

_Jim can't help chuckling at the thought of Batman slammed into the drunk tank, trying to poke fun at the duty officer and eventually tiring himself out and sleeping on the floor. There is a bed in there, but drunk tankers often miss it on their way down._

_"I didn't meet anyone special there, though," Batman adds, lifting his head to watch the skyscraper opposite them. "I met them later."_

_Jim steadfastly ignores the sinking feeling in his chest._

_"Batman has a girlfriend, huh?" He teases instead. Batman dips his head and chuckles quietly._

_"Not a girlfriend," he says, slowly,_ meaningfully _, and Jim's heart rate spikes despite himself._

_"And I haven't told him."_

_"Well, if you're looking for advice, you're shit out of luck, Batman," Jim says. "I haven't had a date since the nineties."_

_Batman laughs with him, casting him a sideways glance._

_"No more wives for GCPD's favourite cop?"_

_"I did the whole shebang," Jim answers, stubbing his cigarette against concrete. "Wife, house, two kids. Sent them off to college. Decided I liked men more. Wife decided she liked_ women _more. I'm ready to just settle down, no responsibilities."_

_"That's not the stereotype I remember."_

_"And I don't remember Batman being a coward," Jim jokes. "Tell your damn man you like him."_

_"Maybe someday," Batman agrees, and that's enough for Jim. He stamps down the faint jealousy inside him and forces himself to sit up straighter._

_Gotham is quiet tonight. At least the city centre is - Jim can see cinema lights and taxi signs in the commercial part of town; can see the jolly Ferris wheel at the Bonus Brother's Carnival, a bright spot on the edge of town. Industrial is shut down for the night, and business is as silent as it ever is. Wayne Tower's light flickers a little._

_"Why are you telling me all this, Batman?" Jim asks, looking at Batman for as long as he can before quiet cogs start turning in the back of his head. He tunes it out, and watches the city once more. Then, when Batman doesn't answer, sighs quietly. Tries to think of a different topic._

_"It's been quiet lately," he ends up on. "We haven't made any serious arrests in weeks."_

_"That's the problem," Batman says suddenly. "It's quiet."_

_Jim cocks an eyebrow. "You want crime?"_

_"No. I just...Gotham could_ always _be like this, Jim."_

_Batman expels a heavy breath. "I'm part of the problem. Criminals want to get_ me _, not Gotham. Gotham's just...collateral damage."_

_"You're wrong," Jim says with a conviction he feels in every nerve._

_"When?" Batman spits. "When have I helped?"_

_"Joe Chill," Jim says. He doesn't know why it jumps to mind - probably because it was Batman's first arrest. Back when the GCPD wrote him off as a one-time weirdo, and then he just kept coming back, helping with arrests and saving lives in the process._

_Batman doesn't argue with him on that one, because he can't._

_"Stryker. Zucco."_

_"Dent," Batman bites back. "Catwoman. Lady Arkham."_

_This time, Jim can't argue._

_"Dent turned the city into a_ warzone _because of me," Batman says, curling gloved fingers around the edge of the roof. "Vale murdered people to get to me."_

_"They were already gone," Jim says. Without thinking, he places his hand on Batman's and squeezes for emphasis. "There was nothing you could have done, not at that point."_

_Batman looks surprised, but doesn't move his hand._

_"I made it worse," he says._

_"You don't know that," Jim warns. "You_ can't _know. But you did the best you could, Batman."_

_"How do you know?" The full force of Batman's gaze on him is almost overwhelming, the bright white eyeholes staring straight at Jim._

_"Because I trust you," Jim answers simply, holding that gaze. Batman seems to search his face for something - not that Jim can see where his eyes are looking, but he can_ feel _the piercing touch of them._

_Batman determines whatever he's determining, and returns his stare to the city, shifting his hand under Jim's. Silence again, but this time not nearly as tense._

_"Thank you," Batman says quietly - so quietly Jim almost misses it._

_"Always," Jim says. He waits a beat and then removes his hand. "Now c'mon, there's no crime to fight. Go home. Why are you still up here with me?"_

_Batman chuckles - lighter, now, like a weight's been lifted off his chest._

_"You're still here, too," he points out. "The Commissioner has to have better things to do on a Friday night."_

_Jim thinks, privately, that this is already one of the better things._

_"So does Batman," he replies. "Go...I don't know, go tell your guy you like him."_

_Batman laughs, an odd sort of_ ha _noise. He presses his voice modulator button again, and Jim can tell he's about to take off. He scoots over a couple inches._

_"What?" He asks, narrowing his eyes at Batman._

_"I already did," Batman replies, looking at Jim._ Looking _at him._

_In the beat it takes for it to click for Jim, Batman's already grappling to the next building._


	5. Fourth Month: Part 1

Bruce puts out an ad for an IT specialist two weeks later. Four months after he'd retired from Batman and starting giving back to Gotham as Bruce Wayne, and the press seem to be calm for now. There's no new announcements on any of his projects, but he is hoping to break ground on the new hospital sometime in the new next weeks. Avesta assured him everything was ready to go, and that now it's just a matter of moving construction equipment and supplies on-site. 

He buries the ad in page four of the Gotham Gazette, listed between a dishwasher ad for a local restaurant and a receptionist position at Gotham General. Even though it's got his name on it, Bruce is hoping it'll escape the notice of the press long enough for some real applications to come in. 

It doesn't last for long. One of the tabloid articles the very next day is pointing out a 'secret ad for Bruce Wayne?' and highlights it in full. 

But despite that, Bruce still checks every email that comes in. There's not that many, surprisingly. Maybe the tabloids are losing their touch. There's a few applicants, all with eloquent degrees from equally eloquent universities, but Bruce has never hired on basis of place of education. No, he's always been interested in what people can _do_ , not where they're from, so he arranges interviews with all of them over the course of the week. 

The first couple interviews are easy dismissals - the applicants are too arrogant for Bruce's taste, and he doesn't think they could keep a secret for five minutes, let alone for a whole potential career. He keeps Tiffany updated via text while the second one leaves. 

"Hello, Mr. Wayne," his assistant says when she picks up the phone. 

"Hi Jenny," he answers. "Can you send in the next applicant?" 

"Of course. He's coming right up." 

Bruce sets out the applicant's file in front of him, just in case he needs it to remind him of anything, and does an obligatory scroll through his emails while waiting for his door to open. The man that opens it doesn't look much different from the other applicants at first glance. But on second glance, which Bruce always takes, there's differences in the details. He catches them with an expert eye, honed by years of fieldwork. The wrinkles in the elbows of the shirt, the shoulder stitch just a little too low - not a tailored shirt, then - the windswept hair, the scuffs on the shoes, new slacks - so this isn't his usual outfit - frayed edges on the backpack. 

"Good morning," Bruce says, gesturing to the chair opposite his desk and offering his hand. The applicant gives him a firm handshake before returning the greeting and sitting down with a charming smile. Bruce notes the rougher texture of his palms. 

The details might not mean anything, but Bruce has had far too much experience with details to believe that. Without even brushing up on the file, Bruce knows this applicant wasn't born with a silver spoon in his mouth, unlike the other candidates so far. And the backpack indicates preparation. Bruce likes that immensely. 

"Thank you for coming," Bruce starts. "I'm Bruce Wayne, in case the nameplate was confusing. And you are?" 

The applicant chuckles softly. "Robin Grayson," he says. "Nice to meet you, sir." 

"You too, Mr. Grayson." Bruce nods his head obligingly, smiling pleasantly. "I like to start off my interviews with the hard questions, if that's all right." 

"Go for it." Informal. Easygoing. It's a very good start. 

"Why are you applying for this position?" A predictable question, with usually predictable answers. It doesn't mean that Bruce doesn't want to hear them, though.

"I'm applying because I think I would be a great asset to the team." Predictable. 

"I'm qualified and experienced in IT positions, and could definitely bring innovation and motivation to the playing field." Predictable. 

"And I have extensive experience with confidentiality agreements and NDAs, and all my previous clients can attest to that." 

Unpredictable. Bruce blinks. 

"Why do you mention that?" He asks, leaning forward in his chair. "Wayne Enterprises is a very transparent company - at least as much as we can be, without risking data leaks." 

Grayson looks coolly back at him. There's a undercurrent of intelligent confidence in his voice when he speaks. 

"You're looking for an IT specialist, but you didn't publicise the ad and didn't list it on your website. So you're looking for some level of discretion." 

Bruce appraises him. He remembers reading Grayson's file - various high schools, a local community college in the next state, the cover letter expressing his decision to move to Gotham to pursue tech opportunities. And even though he's got no Ivy Leagues in there, no grand awards, he already seems smarter than the last two candidates Bruce saw. No one else pointed out that little detail of his ad. 

"Very clever," Bruce praises. "I am looking for...a certain level of discretion. And you think you can handle that?" 

"I know I can," Grayson replies. _Right answer_. "I did freelancing work through and after college, mostly with regards to data processing and storage. I've put contact details for all clients who consented to give a reference at the bottom of my résumé." 

Bruce sits back in his chair. Grayson, so far, is a very impressive candidate. He's definitely got the professional side of things covered, so Bruce changes track. 

"Tell me about yourself," he says. "You mentioned innovation earlier - what kind of innovation?" 

Now, Grayson shifts a bit in his chair. 

"I like to code," he says. "In my spare time." 

Bruce makes a mental note of that. "What kind of coding?" 

"Sort of...everything. Reprogramming a laptop, editing software." Grayson pauses to lick his lips. "But I also work on...I guess you could call them inventions." 

"Inventions?" 

"Can I show you?" Grayson asks, gesturing to his backpack. Bruce nods eagerly. 

"I'm not planning to patent and distribute them, really," Grayson says as he digs something out of his backpack. "Mostly, they're just fun to make." 

He puts what looks like a toy on Bruce's desk. It's a surfboard, only slightly longer than his hand, with a nondescript action figure posed on the top - Bruce squints to see the almost invisible wires connecting the surfer's hands to tiny holes in the board. The surfboard itself is thicker than a board technically should be, clearly built to hold something in there. When Grayson brings out a controller, Bruce realises it might be an engine. He clears some papers out of the way and sits back to give Grayson more room on the desk, gesturing for him to continue. 

The surfboard has a jerky start, but once it's going, it's smooth - Bruce glances underneath the board and realises that it's _floating_ , hot air pushed out to keep it levitating a short height above the wood. Grayson glides it around in a smooth circle, demonstrates the reversing, and brings it back to his edge of the desk. Then he presses a button and the surfer suddenly moves, the wires on his hands - and feet, Bruce realises, when the surfer does an impressive handstand - sliding in and out of the holes through what must be a sophisticated pulley system to pose him. Grayson pushes a few different controls for a few different poses, and ends by jerking the surfer's hand in a clumsy wave to Bruce. 

" _Wow_ ," Bruce breathes, automatically reaching for the device, but then he stops himself. "Can I touch it?" 

"Go ahead. It's not as fragile as it looks." 

Still, Bruce picks it up very gently, turning it over to inspect all sides of it. The workmanship is a little shoddy, with uneven seams and jagged edges where Grayson must have cut out the bottom of the board for it to hover. But the design is more than impressive - although completely different, the spirit of it reminds Bruce of Tiffany. 

"That's amazing," he praises as he hands it back. Grayson ducks his head. 

"Thank you, sir." He carefully stows the toy and the controller in his backpack. 

"You made it yourself?" Bruce asks, leaning forward on his elbows again. Grayson half-nods. 

"Yes, but coding's my strong suit," he says. "I built it mostly to test the code and circuit." 

"You coded the controller?" 

"From top to bottom." 

"Huh." Bruce leans back in his chair, looking over Grayson with an appraising eye. _Coding, huh_? Bruce can feel the cogs turning in his head. He knows that Tiffany can build, and if Robin can code...

He slides the unopened file to the side. 

"Well, Mr. Grayson - can I call you Robin?" 

Grayson - _Robin_ nods. 

"Robin, how would you feel about a second interview?" 

Robin's eyes widen a little. 

"I would be honoured, sir." 

"This one would be at Wayne Manor," Bruce says, offering his hand. "Say, Friday morning? Drop by when you're done with your paper route. No need to dress up." 

"I - yes, thank you sir," Robin says, giving him a firm handshake. 

"Please, call me Bruce." 

\-- 

Later that Monday evening, Alfred agrees to help Bruce with an extensive background check on Robin Grayson. They're at the Batcomputer because it has the most processing power, sorting through various files. Alfred types on a smaller screen to Bruce's right, researching clients and work history - earlier, Bruce had phoned up every single one of Robin's references and asked for one, and all were eager to agree to get him one as soon as possible. He'll read through whichever ones arrive before Friday, and compare it to the information Alfred's digging up on the clients themselves - he can't exactly hire an IT specialist if he's worked for any shady companies. So far, though, Alfred tells him everything's legitimate. 

"Kind of like old times, huh?" Bruce says, glancing over at Alfred. 

"Quite," Alfred says. He smiles to himself. "But I'm glad that's behind us now." 

"Me too," Bruce replies, and is a little surprised to find that he _means_ it. He barely misses being Batman at all nowadays. 

While Alfred combs through companies, Bruce works backwards through Robin's personal history, tracking education with residential address - he moved around quite a bit when he was younger, in and out of the foster care system, so his address history spans a couple states across. Through high school, Bruce mostly manages it through yearbook photos and adoption records under Grayson, murmuring to himself when he checks off the next place on his list. When everything checks out, he moves back further. He finds a younger photo of Robin at the correct middle school, but there's a different name - _oh_. 

Alfred, glancing at Bruce's screen, _hm_ s in acknowledgement and turns back to his own computer. Bruce checks the school and city off his list and moves back a year, still only focusing on the _Grayson_ name. Eventually, he traces all the way back to Robin's birth year - probably unnecessary, but if Bruce is hiring a total stranger to help with the Batcave, he wants to do the most thorough background check he _can_. 

"Everything looks all right with employment history," Alfred informs him. "He's _clean_ , as you Americans would say." 

"And everything matches with personal," Bruce supplies. "No criminal record. He seems trustworthy." 

"Trustworthy enough?" 

Bruce leans back in the chair with a long exhale, slowly turning it to face Alfred. 

"Yes. Maybe. I don't know," he says. "I don't know what to do to...vet him I guess." 

Alfred closes his terminal down and spins in his chair to face Bruce. He's got a twinkle in his eye, one that says he has a very good idea. 

"What is it?" Bruce asks, raising an eyebrow. 

"Miss Avesta is your new COO," Alfred says. "She _did_ use to be a profiler for the Agency. She figured out who you were, remember?" 

"Of course." 

"Why not give her time with him? A...trial period, of sorts, in Wayne Tower? That way he wouldn't be around anything sensitive, and she could do a read for you." 

"That...is an excellent idea, Alfred," Bruce says, already reaching for his phone to text Iman. "I'll ask her about it tomorrow." 

"Glad I could help," Alfred says modestly, and Bruce laughs gently. 

"You always do," he replies. "Thank you." 

"No problem, Bruce." 

\-- 

Avesta agrees to the two-week trial period with Robin - he'll basically be her assistant, but without actually needing training for her position. 

"Good," she says. "My plate's full as it is." 

"Thank you, Iman," Bruce replies, looking her in the eyes. "It means a lot to me." 

"Hey, it means I get help, right?" She laughs. "Anything else?" 

"No - wait, yes. He likes coding, so, y'know, see if you can give him any fun work." 

Iman laughs again, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "Fun work?" 

Bruce shrugs sheepishly. "He's promising. I don't want to bore him out with paperwork." 

"I'm sure I can think of something," she promises. "But if you're already this invested in him? I think we both know what I'll see in him." 

"I hope it's the same thing." 

"Me too, Bruce." She squeezes his arm and turns to leave the office. "Thanks for the coffee, by the way." 

"Anytime," he calls after her. The door shuts firmly behind her and Bruce goes to sit down. 

His email box is pinging wildly when he opens it with some of Robin's client references, and Bruce settles in with his coffee for a long morning. 

\-- 

Jim's hand aches from how much stamping he's done today. It's just bullshit paperwork, as well, marking off evidence and reports for the Joker and Harley case - not that they're much more closer to sealing it. Montoya is still trying to find the next footstep after the Metropolis graffiti, and Jim's got a couple other officers chasing up half-baked leads in Coast City. But it doesn't feel right to believe they travelled - he feels like the answer's right under his nose somewhere here in Gotham, some hidden stone that he hasn't unturned. 

He looks out of the window and sees Wayne Tower in the distance, darkened for the night. Maybe he should ask Bruce about it again. He hasn't wanted to push Bruce past what he gave for his extensive statements, and what he privately told Jim, but maybe he might have an idea that Jim hasn't thought of. Hell, he's already brought in other players for another interview - Avesta, Blake, Knable, a couple of Bane's imprisoned thugs. It wouldn't be a stretch to bring Bruce in again, but he's already said everything he knows. 

Jim shuts his computer down and decides to sleep on it. He'll ask Montoya what she thinks tomorrow. He grabs his cane and stands up with a sigh - the good thing about constantly travelling between the file room and back means that his knees don't get stiff and achey. Especially with the warmer weather lately. He heads downstairs and bids goodbye to the officers on duty before slipping out the back to get to his car. He pauses to light a cigarette, exhaling softly at the familiar heat against his tongue. 

"Evening, Commissioner." 

Jim pauses mid-suck. He recognises that voice. 

He turns slowly to face the source, a slow grin growing on his face. 

Streetlights don't touch the alley behind the GCPD - the only light is the faint bulb outside of the back door. Hidden in the shadows is a large, familiar shape, just barely blacker than the shadows - and someone equally shadowy leaning on it, arms crossed. Bright white eyeholes stare back at Jim. 

"Batman," he says evenly. "What are you doing here?" 

Batman steps forward, enough for the light to catch his armour. Jim can't ignore the thrill it sends down his spine. He sucks calmly on his cigarette and walks towards Batman. He knows what Bruce is doing. 

"Want a ride?" Batman asks, low, _gravelly_. It reverberates in Jim's teeth, strikingly familiar. 

"Sure, if you're offering," he says, playing it cool, pretending he doesn't want to jump him right fucking here. 

Batman moves fluidly to the drivers' seat as Jim tugs open the door and gets in, stubbing his cigarette out before closing the door behind him. Behind the tinted windows, there's still the glow of various dials and meters and buttons - Batman calmly turns the key and the engine rumbles between Jim's legs, deep and smooth. He doesn't have to ask where they're going. 

"Still smoking?" Batman asks. "That's bad for you, Commissioner." 

Oh, so that's how they're playing this? Jim's game. 

"And so is running around the city without backup," he retorts. "It doesn't stop you." 

Batman laughs, a low, rumbling sound in his chest. Jim shoots him a look, and lets his eyes linger on the curve of Batman's jaw under the cowl. Batman glances back at him, an attractive pink dusting his cheekbones. He shifts in his seat at a stoplight, and Jim knows instantly what that particular movement means. His own cock twitches at the realisation that Batman is _hard_ under the armour. 

The rest of the ride back is filled with palpable tension, no words, just covert glances, and Jim hardly notices when they pull into a hidden side entrance of Wayne Manor and roll into a garage. When door closes behind them, the floor descends, starts tilting halfway down, and neatly connects with a ramp that leads them to a flat platform. 

"Fancy," Jim drawls. "You take all the Commissioners here?" 

"Only you," Batman promises, turning off the engine. Jim rubs his mouth and glances out at the Batcave. Batman's eyes follow his fingers. Jim grins, a wicked idea forming in his head. He pulls out his pack of cigarettes as he opens the door. He decides to leave the cane. 

"Can I?" He asks, shaking the pack. Batman blinks and nods - Jim steps out and Batman follows suit, their door shutting in unison. Jim lights his second cigarette of the night, but this one isn't for the relief. Batman licks his lips, watches intently as Jim takes a slow, luxurious drag. 

He blows out the smoke out of the corner of his mouth. Batman bites his lip. 

"What do you want, Batman?" He asks, walking around to Batman's side. 

"Jim," Batman says, a warning and a plea all in one, all pitched dizzyingly deep by the modulator. Jim sticks the cigarette in his mouth and grips Batman's hips to shove him against the car door, growling low in his throat. 

Jim takes his cigarette again and kisses Batman - rough, with teeth, as if they're on a rooftop and on a time limit. Batman responds with the roughest groan Jim's ever heard from him, gloved hands sliding around his biceps to hold. When Batman's hips first brush against his, Jim shivers. It's odd, to feel Batman's armour pressed to him but no hint of the _interest_ Jim knows is underneath. With a grunt - Batman _moans_ \- Jim works at the clasp on the Batman belt, carelessly shoving open latches with his thumbs until it comes loose in his hands. He discards it on the floor beside them and runs his hands up to find the connections for the cape - it slithers to the floor and then there's hands on Jim's hips, urging him into a filthy grind. But Batman just grunts in frustration, teeth pressed to Jim's lower lip as he desperately tries for friction he can't get in the armour. 

"Jesus," Jim mutters, and pulls back to look at Batman for a second. It's an incredibly hot sight - the eyeholes still glowing white, but Batman's mouth is open, panting, his lower lip shining with a little bit of spit, and _god_ Jim wants him. 

He jams his cigarette into the side of his mouth again and, without warning, grabs Batman's hips and turns him around and against the car. The boots make Batman a little taller than Jim now, but the way Batman's knees buckle slightly when Jim slides his hands around the front make up for it. He knows the suit is largely panels that click together, which is easy enough, but finding the connectors is the hard part. Batman shoves a hand down to guide Jim's fingers. Jim strokes the hidden latches, but doesn't undo them. Batman drops his head and moans pleadingly. 

"You'll wait," Jim growls - Batman's shudder is visible even through the armour. But he's not going to be waiting long - Jim rests his forehead on Batman's shoulder and grinds against his ass, barely biting back a groan at the feeling. 

"You're not what I expected, Commissioner," Batman says, voice pushed even lower with arousal. The timbre buzzes through Jim's bones. He casually shrugs off his coat and tosses it onto the roof beside Batman. Next, he rolls up his sleeves. 

"Get used to it," he says in Batman's ear. Batman shudders, groans when Jim tugs his hips back again. 

"Jim," Batman bites out, rough. "Jim, _please_." 

Jim was not prepared for how _hot_ the sound of Batman _begging_ is. He steps back and roughly guides Batman over to the hood - Batman doesn't even stumble, far too eager to splay his hands on the hood of the Batmobile and moan again when Jim places a hand in the centre of his back and pushes him down. 

" _Fuck_ ," Batman gasps, glancing back over his shoulder. Now Jim undoes the latches on Batman's thighs, letting armour plates clatter carelessly to the floor. He palms Batman over the Kevlar lining and groans quietly at the way Batman shoves his hips forwards. The Kevlar suit is thankfully in two pieces, so when Jim removes the panels over Batman's ass, it's easy to peel down the waistband and snap it around his thighs. 

"No underwear?" Jim teases, and in a completely unthought move, slaps Batman's ass. Batman whimpers. Jim repeats the slap on the other side and Batman collapses onto his elbows, eyes closing. 

"You got anything?" Jim asks, finally reaching around to touch Batman's cock. He strokes while Batman tries to answer, caught between speaking and fucking into Jim's hand. 

"Thigh," Batman manages, and it's enough for Jim to know what he's talking about. He reaches down Batman's right thigh for the small hidden compartment in a hollow panel - pries open the lid and finds a few foil packets. He tosses them on the hood, keeps a fist around Batman as he picks up one of the lube ones and tears it open with his teeth. 

While he messily spreads it on his fingers one-handed, Batman rocks back, bumping his ass against Jim's bulge on every second go. Jim swears hotly and fumbles to open his belt, button, and zip with one very slippery hand, pressing his cock to Batman and slipping the other between his legs. Batman jumps at the first touch to his hole, shuddering rewardingly when Jim starts rubbing against it with a knuckle. Then a fingertip. A bit fast for normally, but Bruce has clearly done some more _eager_ preparation than usual. 

"Jim, fuck - " Batman breaks off with a grunt, hands curling into fists on the hood. Jim doesn't slide any more of his finger in, instead focusing on stroking Batman's dick and letting him try to roll his hips for it. Batman whines in frustration, pitched low and gravelly. 

"Christ," Jim breathes. " _Christ_ , you're hot." 

"Thanks," Batman says, cocky despite his breathlessness, and Jim squeezes the head of his cock to make that smug smile drop into a moan again. He grins around the cigarette. 

It's exhilarating, breaking Batman down like this, like so many times Jim''s imagined it when they met on the rooftops, entertained a fleeting fantasy when he went home to an empty bed - and _god_ , it's even better _now_ , when he knows exactly who's blushing under the cowl, who's shifting and rolling and begging for a second finger that Jim gives easily. He matches the pace of his fingers with his other hand, until Batman _whines_ again, his cheeks a furious red. 

"J-Jim, please, I'm gonna - Jim," he babbles, knees buckling forward and hitting the wheel well. " _Jim_ , I won't last, _please_ \- " 

Jim pulls his stroking hand away. Batman whimpers despite asking for it, and then whimpers again when Jim presses a third finger to him. Batman's impatient by now, rocking back eagerly to meet the third, groaning quietly at the stretch - Jim twists his fingers and presses down and the noise that leaves Batman is a cross between strangled and startled, wonderfully deep. 

"More," he rasps, and Jim bets if it wasn't for the cowl, he'd be far too embarrassed to say shit like that. But it stills sends a searing bolt of arousal through Jim, and he only fingers Batman for another few moments before pulling out. He uses his clean hand to rip open the condom and second lube with his teeth, rolls on the first and uses the second to slick up afterwards, drops of lube rolling down Batman's hole when he presses the head to it. He doesn't push in quite yet, though, rubbing in a slow, torturous grind that makes Batman wriggle under him, moaning his name into the paint. 

" _Please_ ," Batman begs, his voice shot through. Jim squeezes his fist around himself to try and gather himself again - because as much as he likes teasing Batman, all the foreplay already has him hovering dangerously close to the point of no return. 

"Yeah, yeah," he murmurs, and steadies Batman with a hand on his hip as he positions himself. 

Batman slams a fist on the hood as Jim pushes in, arching his back one way then the other as he adjusts - Jim pauses every few seconds before sliding in further, and reaches around to gently touch the head of Batman's cock as a distraction. Brushing the slit makes Batman clench up around him, which forces a loud moan from Jim, and Batman opens his eyes enough to look back at him, as if he's cataloguing it. 

When Jim's hips meet Batman's ass, he stops. Batman pants loudly in the Batcave. 

"Move, Jim," he growls, but the modulator can't change how breathy it is. 

"Ask nicely." Batman tenses around him in response and Jim inhales sharply. But still doesn't move. Batman drops his forehead onto his wrists and moans weakly. 

" _Please_ ," he rumbles, and only then does Jim start to move. 

He tries to keep it measured, one hand on Batman's hip and the other flat on his back to keep him pinned down, but all the restraint in the world can't keep Jim from fucking in in uneven thrusts, knees weak at the sight. He moves the hand on Batman's back to wrap around him again, lifting his hip with his other hand to better the angle - Batman cries out, suddenly, and Jim grins to himself, jerking his head to toss away the hair falling into his eyes. 

Batman's elbows slide out from under him when Jim starts jacking him in time, using the leftover lube on his hand to slick it up for him. One gloved hand hooks under the windshield to hold on, and the other splays on the hood once more, trying and failing to keep him balanced when Jim's thrusts speed up. He can barely keep Batman in a rhythm, more holding on than controlling with the hand on his hip - Batman eagerly fucks himself back on Jim's dick, moaning unabashedly with almost every stroke now. Jim can relate, small, hitched noises tumbling unbidden out of his mouth. 

" _Commissioner_ ," Batman groans, and it should be awkward-sounding, but somehow he makes it _hot_ \- heat shoots through Jim like a knife and he leans forward to rest a hand on the hood instead, all pretence of calm go as he fucks faster into Batman. He can feel Batman's own thrusts get shorter, snappier, and tightens his fist for him to help - Batman judders underneath him and his noises reach a peak before tumbling into pleading whimpers - he's close, very close, and the way he tenses around Jim in the build-up just makes Jim all the more likely to come in five fucking seconds. 

Batman's cries out _loudly_ when he comes, the noise twisting into a whine as Jim fucks him through it. Jim feels come on his fist, feels it drip down to stain the wheel well, keeps going even when Batman has stopped coming, his cock burning in Jim's hand. Jim drops his forehead to Batman's armoured back and screws his eyes shut, carefully keeping the burning edge of his cigarette away from the armour but carelessly chasing his own orgasm. 

It hits him with a searing pulse of heat, travelling over his skin and through his bones as he gasps and pants, spitting out a name that isn't Batman into the space between Batman's shoulder blades. 

" _Oh_ ," Bruce pants, and shudders a little under him. Jim stays where he is while he comes down, fucking lazily into Bruce to drag out both their aftershocks - when the next slide makes a sharp twinge of sensitivity run through Jim, he disentangles himself to pull out. He politely tugs up the Kevlar suit, ties off his condom to shove it into one of the empty lube packets, and tucks himself in. His knees ache vaguely, but not enough to bother him just yet. 

Bruce is still splayed on the Batmobile. 

"I don't think I can move," he says, licking his lips. "That was...better than I was imagining." But he starts pushing himself up anyway, only to turn around and sit down on the hood, plucking Jim's cigarette out of his mouth and extinguishing it against the car before hooking his fingers in Jim's coat to tug him in for a kiss. At this angle, Jim has to tilt his head down a touch to meet him, but _mmm_ s contentedly into it. His hands drift up to the base of the cowl, trying to find a break, and Batman smoothly reaches up and pulls it off for him. Jim hears it thump on the floor behind him. 

When they separate, Jim finally gets a good look at Bruce - his pupils are still slightly dilated, and there's a line across his cheekbone where the cowl dug in, pressed against the hood - but he's wearing one of Jim's favourite smiles. Wordlessly, he urges Jim back in for another slow kiss, and the soft little kiss he touches to the corner of Jim's mouth is so fond it makes Jim's heart skip a beat. 

Jim kisses Bruce's cheek before they part again. 

"So, you got a Batshower?" Jim glances down at the armour plates scattered around the floor. Bruce chuckles and stands up. 

"No, but I _do_ have a regular shower," he says. "With a bench?" 

"You tryin' to get something there, Wayne?" He teases. A bench and hot water _do_ sound nice though. 

"Depends," Bruce answers, grinning. He leans down to grab Jim's cane and hand it back to him. "You offering?" 

"I could be," Jim allows. Bruce raises an eyebrow. He grins wickedly. 

"Then lead the way, _Commissioner_." 


	6. Fourth Month: Part 2

Friday comes slowly that week - _everything_ seems slow that week, and always on the wrong side of too short or too long. Time with Jim is too short, and meetings about the new hospital are too long, and Bruce spends more time sorting out new details with every project - Twin Trees progress, Gotham General equipment, construction wages - than on anything actually concerned with the Wayne Enterprises business. 

Speaking of Wayne Enterprises, Robin arrives while Bruce and Jim are just finishing up breakfast. The doorbell rings sharply in the kitchen - one of many ringing points, so Bruce can hear when someone's at the door wherever he is. 

"Oh shit, that's my interviewee," Bruce says, wiping crumbs off his face. Jim laughs. 

"Do you want me to clean up?" He asks. Bruce shakes his head. 

"Later," he says. "I need you to disappear." 

"All right, all right, I'm disappearing," Jim says, holding his hands up. "I'll be upstairs, as we agreed." 

"Thank you, I love you." Bruce kisses him quickly on the cheek and heads out to the lobby while Jim vanishes into the manor. 

"Good morning," he says as he welcomes Robin in, briefly shaking his hand at the door. 

"Good morning, Mr. Wayne," Robin says, glancing around as he walks in. "This somehow looks bigger on the inside." 

"I get special paint for that," Bruce jokes. "And _please_ call me Bruce. Mr. Wayne is far too formal for the house." 

Robin nods, tucking his hands into his pockets as Bruce locks the door. Bruce has to remind himself that even though he feels like he knows Robin from all the background checks, Robin has still only met him twice. To that end, he gestures to the back of the manor, past the contractors gathered around a taped-off area to the left of the main staircase. They're putting in a platform lift for him, mostly just a panel of the floor with safety rails and gates that will rise up to meet the landing. 

"How about we go outside? It's nice today," he says. "And we won't be interrupting these gentlemen." 

"That's okay with me," Robin agrees, and follows him through the giant lobby, his shoes barely making a sound. Bruce can't tell if Robin took his casual dress advice to heart - he's in jeans and trainers, which is casual enough, and an open shirt over a plain black T-shirt. His hair is still windswept, though. Maybe Bruce is out of touch with the youth fashion of today. 

Bruce takes him to a little patio just out the back of the manor, where it's sunny and warm from the new spring sun - just last weekend he had put the umbrellas up over the metal tables for shade. He takes a seat across from Robin. 

Briefly, he remembers a charity gala where he had invited Jim out here for some fresh air - the poor Commissioner looked so stifled inside that Bruce couldn't help it, feeling familiar despite the fact that Jim had no clue he was Batman. He smiles at the memory. 

"So, Robin, I asked you back to learn more about you," Bruce says, resting his elbows on the table. "I think you're a very strong candidate." 

"Thanks," Robin says, smiling a little. "What, uh, what do you want to know?" 

"Well, I read all the references I was sent," Bruce starts. "All glowing. And I ran a background check on you - standard for all Wayne employees, you understand." He doesn't mention how _comprehensive_ this background check was. Robin tenses up almost imperceptibly. 

"And I didn't find anything I didn't like," Bruce finishes. Robin relaxes again. 

"Which leaves me with only a couple more questions. What do you see as your career path?" 

They talk for a rough half an hour out there, Robin about his potential career choices and desires, and Bruce in response about the opportunities this IT specialist position offers, and about the mission of Wayne Enterprises to keep people safe and secure. He learns more about Robin's regular volunteering for the past six years with the Coast Guard - _every other weekend, when I can_. Hearing the way Robin talks about his passion only makes Bruce more confident in his decision - Robin clearly loves it, and he clearly wants to do good with it. Bruce asks about some charity coding projects he noticed on Robin's résumé, and is hugely impressed with the _of course I did them, I want to help however I can_ in response. The conversation is more free-flowing in this setting, less stuffy and formal than in his office at Wayne Tower. 

When the chat naturally trails off, Bruce leans back in his chair. 

"I have to admit, I'm very impressed by you," Bruce says honestly. "I think you'll be a great fit. Which is why I'd like to offer you a two-week trial period at Wayne Enterprises, working under our COO." 

"Trial period?" Robin asks, understandably wary. 

"It's paid," Bruce says. "And I don't give them out lightly - it's a chance for you to see the company and for me to see how you work with us." He fixes Robin with a meaningful look. "And because of discretion I need for the nature of the... _project_ I'm hiring you for, I would like to hear my COO's opinion of working with you. If that's okay." 

"That sounds fine," Robin says. "Will I be working on assignments...similar to the project?" 

"Yes and no. You'll be using skills you'll definitely need for the project, but the project is...well, it's the sort of project that once I tell you about it, there needs to be a mountain of confidentiality paperwork. Basically, I need to trust you." He looks Robin in the eye. "I think you're a trustworthy guy, Robin. This trial is just for you to keep proving that to me." 

Robin nods seriously, if a little jerky. "I understand, Mr. Wayne." 

"Fantastic. Are you okay to start on Monday?" 

"I have my paper route - " Robin starts, but Bruce dismisses it with a wave. 

"Clock in afterwards," he says. "Just be at Wayne Tower before noon, if you can. I'll introduce you to the COO then." And then reaches into his pocket for a piece of paper with digits written on it. He slides it over to Robin. 

"This is my phone number," he says. "Text me if you need anything." 

"I - are you sure, Mr. Wayne?" 

"Absolutely." 

Robin takes the paper and tucks it carefully into his front pocket. He looks back up at Bruce - then pales when his eyes lock onto something be _hind_ Bruce. 

"Commissioner?" He asks, his voice pitching higher. Bruce turns around to see Jim at the patio screen door, hand halfway into a cupboard in the kitchen beyond. Bruce sighs, hanging his head. Now he's going to have to explain _that_. Jim looks a little sheepish. 

"Sorry?" He says, and Bruce can't help his huff of laughter. 

"You'll have to excuse the Commissioner - " he starts. 

" _Robin_?" Jim asks, squinting through the door. Robin waves at him, shrinking into his seat. Bruce glances between them. 

"Do you two know each other?" He asks, narrowing his eyes at Jim. 

"He's my paperboy - " " - I'm on his paper route." comes out of them simultaneously. Bruce rests his elbow on the table and his forehead on his fingers. 

"I didn't know you were the one applying," Jim says to Robin. 

"I should...explain what the Commissioner is doing here," Bruce says slowly. He can't even cover for him - Jim's in a fucking short-sleeve shirt and shorts. 

"I, uh, I'm _dating_ him," Bruce says through slightly gritted teeth, trying to hide the smile he gets whenever he talks about Jim. Robin looks surprised. 

"Oh," he says softly. "Congratulations?" 

"If you could not tell anyone, that would be...stellar," Bruce adds. Then, in a hurry, "It's not a secret, it's just...private." 

"I can definitely do that," Robin says, and coughs to hide a laugh. Jim waves at them and leaves the kitchen. 

"He was supposed to disappear," Bruce says sadly. Robin doesn't hide his laugh that time, and Bruce joins him. 

"So...Monday?" Robin asks. 

"Monday. Don't worry about dress," Bruce says. "You'll only be around other employees, nothing public-facing." 

Robin nods and Bruce stands up to lead him back through the manor - Jim's sitting on a sofa in the lobby, calmly reading a newspaper. Bruce stares at him. 

"What? He already knows," Jim says. "Anyway, my knees hurt." 

"I'll see you next week," Robin says, and they exchange goodbyes. 

"You," Bruce says when the door shuts, wheeling around to face Jim. "Are a liar." 

Jim gives him a shit-eating grin. "Yeah, my knees don't hurt." 

\-- 

The breaking ground ceremony for the new hospital the next week is an unrivalled success - headlines the next day are covered with photos of the construction crew, of the building site, and a few obligatory ones of Bruce, Iman, and his board. Bruce's speech is cut up into taglines - "in honour of the staff that work here, the janitors, the receptionists, the orderlies, the admin, the nurses, and the doctors - in honour of every single person that works to help and protect us, I am proud to announce the Gotham Guardian Hospital!" - and splashed under headlines as subtitles. 

Bruce is very pleased with the outpouring of support from the investors in the monthly meeting that morning, fresh-printed newspapers laid out on the table for them to see. 

So he's in a good mood when he knocks on Iman's door during his employee rounds - he likes to check in on all the offices he can at least once a week. 

"Good morning, Iman," he says, then nods at the second desk in the room. "Morning, Robin." 

"Good morning indeed, Bruce," Iman says with her signature smile. "That was a great response from the investors." 

"It was," Bruce agrees, sitting down in the chair across from Iman's desk and setting down a brown paper bag. "I think they'll be much more eager to help with the other emergency service funding after this PR. I won't have to do much convincing at all." 

"Most CEOs get approval before announcing plans," Iman teases. Bruce laughs. 

"I work differently," he says, and turns to Robin. "How's your first week going?" 

"It's - It's good," Robin replies. "Ms. Avesta has...assigned me some interesting projects." 

Bruce raises an eyebrow. He glances at Avesta and back at Robin. 

"She's got you doing finance sheets, doesn't she?" He asks. Robin looks like he's unsure whether to sell her out or not. 

"Let me guess, you're reformatting the ones from last year to fit in with this year's?" 

Robin nods hesitantly, looking between them. 

"I told you to give him fun work," Bruce scolds playfully. Iman shrugs, grinning. 

"I hate doing them," she says. 

"Oughta fire you," Bruce jokes - a long-running inside joke between them - and opens the bag. "I brought breakfast. Robin, I wasn't sure what you liked, so I got a couple different pastries." 

Robin's head snaps up in surprise. Bruce waves him over. 

"You can come sit over here for it," he says. "Unless you want to work through it?" 

Robin pushes his chair over. Bruce laughs, taking out the coffee tray and setting it down on Iman's desk, followed by separate bags of various pastries from the insanely good café on the fourth floor. He slides an iced coffee towards Robin, who catches it easily. He blinks in surprise. 

"Well, that's not creepy at all," he deadpans. He takes a sip through the straw and nods. "Yep, it's definitely not at all a little bit weird that you know my coffee order without me telling you." 

"The barista seemed to know you," Bruce says. Out of the corner of his eye, he thinks he sees Robin blush just the faintest bit.

"How's it been going?" Bruce asks them both. Robin looks at Iman, letting her answer first. 

"Robin's performance is amazing," she says easily. Honestly. Bruce is of course going to meet with her privately about this, but he also wants Robin to hear it. 

"Thanks," Robin says. "And don't worry, Mr. Wayne, it hasn't all been finance sheets." 

"As long as you're enjoying it," Bruce says, nodding at him. "I don't want to bore you out of here in the first week." 

"I definitely am," Robin assures him. 

The rest of breakfast is slightly less business chatter, mostly sharing stories and telling jokes, and half an hour later, Bruce is packing up all the empty cups and bags. 

"Well then, I should go," he says, tucking Iman's chair back in. Robin kicks off from the floor to wheel back to his desk. "I've got a meeting with the GCPD this afternoon." 

"With the Commissioner?" Iman asks, but it's not at all serious. She raises a mischievous eyebrow. 

"The Commissioner _and_ the Chief," Bruce says pointedly, but he's smiling. "And their lawyers." 

"I'm sure you'll be great," Iman says. "Thanks for breakfast. Now shoo, I've got a press release coming out in an hour." 

"I'll see you later," Bruce laughs. "Iman, Robin." He nods at each in turn before leaving her office, stuffing the bag in a bin on his way to the next office. 

\-- 

It's the time of year when the spring blooms start to join the perennials in the manor gardens, pushing aside leafy ferns and crawling ivy to unfurl in the sunlight, dew drops still clinging to some of their petals. 

The manor gardens are vast, but practical. Lined by a sturdy metal fence and hedges for privacy, and filled in with drought-resistant bushes and blooms to avoid water waste, they're used for more...functional purposes now. When he was younger, still in high school, Bruce had worked with Alfred to replace the larger swathes of lawn - the stretches rarely used in the first place anyway - with fake grass and built a greenhouse in the back corner of the gardens, at Alfred's request. He can see it from this balcony, ivy crawling up the sides but halted a few feet up by regular trimming and care. Inside, there's fruit and vegetables, both to supply the manor with homegrown food and give Bruce a hobby - he fondly remembers Alfred coming into the kitchen with a basket of whatever he harvested personally that morning and teaching Bruce how to pickle and jam. Sometimes they kept the products, sometimes they gave them to food banks or shelters, depending on how long they would last. 

Bruce should really start doing that more often. He'd fallen off of household hobbies especially hard the last year, torn away by the Agency and the Pact alike, but now that he's retired from being Batman, and now that he's comfortably passed his legacy along to very capable hands, he should take up his hobbies again. Maybe Jim would like to join as well. 

But despite all his love for practicality - using recycled water in sprinklers, growing some of their own food - he couldn't bear to tear up his mother's flowers, so dotted between bushes and fruit trees are neat, concentrated flower beds. And that's where he spots Alfred and Rosie, walking along the paved path, stopping by the jasmine bed to smell the fragrant blooms. There's a soft pink rose tucked behind Rosie's ear. Bruce spies a small pair of clippers in Alfred's back pocket, and finds himself smiling. He's glad Alfred's found someone. 

He'd always felt an odd mix of guilty and grateful that Alfred didn't seem to pursue anything while raising him - and he knows from previous conversations that if he tries to apologise, Alfred would just shut him down and say that family comes first, that _Bruce_ came first while he was raising and helping him, and he regrets absolutely nothing. He's telling the truth, Bruce knows - he can tell if Alfred's lying - but sometimes he can't help but dwell on the _what if_ s. Not much would change, he knows, because Alfred wouldn't abandon his family, but he wonders if it could have been different. 

He remembers growing up with Rosie as well, remembers eagerly following her for a tour around the gardens. She had stopped by his mother's roses and let him touch them, careful to warn him about the thorns. He'd pricked himself anyways, but she was always prepared, and had pulled out a tissue for him to wrap it in while he frowned at the pain. And he remembers fondling soft lavender stems underneath apple trees with her, listening intently to her information about them - she knew a _lot_ about the garden, and various flora and fauna, and always had a way with them. In the lavender bed, she had knelt by Bruce and gently told him about the bees flitting about - harmless, if he doesn't attack - and had even reached out to gently stroke one with her fingertip. To Bruce's childish amazement, the bee hadn't stung her, or even reacted beyond a buzz. Rosie's hand on his back kept him still, and she nodded towards the bee as an invitation, as if to say _see? it doesn't mind, you can pet it_. 

Bruce chickened out that day, but he didn't next time she took him out. Alfred dubbed him the bee-whisperer for weeks, a title that absolutely delighted nine year old Bruce behind his parents' backs. 

"Don't know why I'm surprised you have a hidden balcony." 

Bruce drops his head with a chuckle. 

"It's not hidden," he says. "Just tucked away." 

"You say that about every new thing I find in here." Jim leans on the balcony beside him, their elbows bumping. He's holding a mug of fresh coffee, steam still rising up from the top. Bruce's lips tug up in an automatic smile - he can't help it around Jim. 

"You spying on them?" Jim jokes, nodding towards Alfred and Rosie. 

"I'm enjoying the gardens," Bruce says. Jim bumps his shoulder. 

"Is that a greenhouse?" Jim asks, squinting dramatically. Bruce laughs. 

"It's always been there," he says. Then grins. "Tucked away." 

Jim chuckles. Sips his coffee. Bruce watches the lavender stems sway in the breeze. Maybe he should start keeping bees. He could learn how to be a beekeeper, and could definitely train or hire a couple others to help. And it would be a convenient way to keep honey in the house. 

"Did they always look like this?" Jim asks, nodding towards the gardens. Bruce shrugs. 

"Mostly," he says. "My parents kept it more...decorative. I put in the fake grass and the greenhouse. And the bushes." 

"The bushes?" 

"Drought resistant," Bruce explains. "So are the hedges. I replaced anything that would be a waste of water." 

"Huh." 

"The flowers...were my mother's. I kept most of them." 

Jim nods. He offers Bruce his coffee - Bruce shakes his head. 

"Never had a playground or anything then?" Jim asks. Bruce furrows his eyebrows. 

"In the gardens?" 

"Yeah, like a - a swing set or something." 

Bruce shakes his head again. "No." 

Jim 'mm's. 

"It was the first thing we did," he says, "when Nancy got pregnant with Bobby. Well, after building the nursery. Tore up half the garden to put shit in. A swing set is a lot harder to put together than you think." 

Bruce laughs. Jim gives him one of those fond, warm smiles that he loves. 

"My parents never did that," Bruce admits. "And I think by the time Alfred became my guardian...I was too old. Or too uninterested." He doesn't dwell on it. Jim doesn't push. 

Silence settles like a comfortable blanket over them. A couple butterflies flutter by in a wild chase that Bruce follows with his eyes until they're out of sight. 

"Did you ever want kids?" Jim asks, looking over at him. Bruce meets his eyes and raises one shoulder in a half-shrug. 

"I don't know," he confesses. Looks back out at the garden. "It never seemed the right time to start a family. And with the Batman thing...I think it would have been careless of me to try to." He glances back at Jim. "I guess it was an easy choice for you?" 

"Yeah," Jim says, cupping his other hand around his coffee. "Always wanted them, and so did Nance, so...we did." He nudges Bruce's elbow again. "And I wasn't moonlighting as a flying mammal, so I didn't have to worry about that." 

Bruce laughs with him at that. Jim adjusts his glasses. Alfred and Rosie step out of view, following the path around to the front of the manor. 

"What about now?" Jim asks. "You're retired from your night job." 

Bruce frowns thoughtfully. 

"I...don't know," he says slowly. "I never really thought about _afterwards_. I didn't think I'd retire." Then, quieter. "I didn't think I'd get the chance." 

Jim's hand appears on his and squeezes gently. 

"I'm glad you did," he replies, calm and compassionate as always. Bruce glances over at him. 

"Are you trying to tell me you want more kids?" He asks, half-teasing, half-serious. Jim huffs. 

"I've done my share," he says, but squeezes his hand again. "But if you ever wanted the chance, then...I'd be happy to help." 

Bruce doesn't know why it hits so deep, when Jim says that. But he holds his hand, and he looks at Jim, at his profile, at the soft swoop of unstyled hair across his forehead, at the creases in the corners of his eyes that Bruce knows reflect his own, and he thinks of Jim's calloused knuckles and scarred knees and the cane he has to use now and the cigarette packs he doesn't burn through as fast anymore, and he sees a man that he, that _Batman_ has put through hell and back, and that same man is standing out here on his balcony at ten in the morning telling Bruce he would happily give him a chance at fatherhood, that he would help Bruce start a _family_. 

It's so immediately ridiculous that Bruce laughs. Jim gives him a look. 

"What?" He asks, his voice gruffer than it was a second ago. 

"Nothing, it's just - " Bruce can't stop smiling, and he can't let go of Jim's hand, and he's overcome with a rush of affection that he almost misses a breath and Jim is just looking at him as if he hasn't said anything out of the ordinary. 

"I got your kneecaps shot out," Bruce says, as if that'll explain everything. "I - I almost got you _killed_. I put you through so much as Batman - " 

Jim kisses his cheek. Bruce blushes. 

"And what about all the shit I gave you?" He asks, raising an eyebrow. 

"You know I wouldn't change a thing," Bruce says. 

"And neither would I," Jim replies. "Except maybe the knees, but I can't do shit about it now. But it's still not your fault." 

Bruce leans in to kiss him. His lips taste of coffee. 

"Thank you," he says, soft, quiet, private, muttered in the space between them. Jim kisses him again. 

"You don't have to thank me for a damn thing." 

\-- 

There's another painful press conference that Bruce holds on the front lawn of Wayne Manor regarding the Martha Wayne Foundation and its updated name and values, which haven't changed in and of themselves, but Bruce has added one that simply states 'to be better than before'. He likes it, he thinks it's punchy, but unfortunately for him, so does every newspaper in Gotham. So he endures the announcement and the Q & A with the board of directors at his side, stepping up to echo his sentiment and answer questions of their own. 

After the initial announcement, Bruce spends a staggering forty-five minutes answering questions before the press conference finally, _finally_ ends. The reporters disperse, the board all shake hands with him and each other and depart, and Bruce waits quietly for the stage and chairs to be dismantled. 

"That was a tough one." 

Bruce smiles at the pleasant surprise of the sound of Jim's voice, turning around to face him. Jim smiles broadly at him, hands stuffed into his pockets. 

"I thought I wasn't seeing you until tomorrow," Bruce says, tucking his phone into his jacket pocket. 

"What, you got a problem with seeing me today as well?" 

"Never." Bruce glances around and tugs Jim behind the stage by his shirt to kiss him. Jim's surprise delays him but he reacts a moment later, chasing Bruce for another brief, but firm, kiss. Bruce is flushed from more than just the sunny day when he pulls away. 

"I sure hope all the press are gone," Jim grumbles, fixing his glasses where Bruce knocked them. 

Bruce shrugs, calmly taking Jim's hand in his. "Don't worry, they'll spin it somehow." He flashes a sunny grin. "Wanna come inside? I'm about to make lunch." 

Jim raises an eyebrow but gestures for Bruce to lead the way. "Spin it?" 

"You'll see," Bruce says sweetly, playfully patting Jim's hand. "You'll see." 

Jim narrows his eyes at him threateningly. 

\-- 

"Business partnership? _Investing_? _Maybe FRIENDS_?" 

"Told you," Bruce says, calmly buttering a piece of toast. Jim slams the paper down and sighs, shoving his fingers underneath his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose. 

" _Alliance_ ," Jim quotes. " _Private meetings_." 

"Welcome to my life, Jim." 

"We're holding hands _in the picture_ , Bruce!" 

"You're free to try and correct them if you want." 

Jim glares at him over steaming coffee. Bruce struggles to stifle his laugh. 

"I am _not_ talking to the press about this." 

"I suppose we do have a business partnership as well," Bruce muses, just to wind Jim up. Jim flips the paper around and points dramatically at the photo. 

"Holding hands!" 

A giggle slips out of Bruce before he can stop it, and Jim pauses mid-rant, blinking at him. His moustache twitches with a suppressed smile. 

"You finding this funny?" He asks, his voice lifting at the end. Bruce drops his toast to rest his head in his hand and laugh, reaching out with the other to drag the paper into the other corner of the table. 

"They always do this, Jim," he says eventually, trying to not blow crumbs across the plate. "Every single time I'm photographed with a man, it's a _business partnership_. _Potential investor_." 

"I've seen the articles. Assumed you were just a busy man," Jim says, taking a long sip of his coffee. 

"I was on a date for half of those," Bruce admits. "Literally no business involved whatsoever. If I was with a _lady_ , though, well. Romance scandal central, apparently." 

"Did you date all of them, too?" Jim asks around his bacon. Bruce playfully kicks him under the table. 

"More of the men than the women," he says. "I've never hidden who I like, Jim. The media just ignores it." 

"Explains why you're so...casual about Batman," Jim says, waving his fork in the air. 

"Please, the media can't figure out that I'm sleeping with a guy even if they get a photo of me kissing him." 

Jim's eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. "They got a _photo_ of that?" 

Bruce waves a hand. "Apparently I was picking up the fashionable _European_ -style greeting. Anyway, proves my point." 

"Huh." Jim pauses. "They're damn stupid." 

"The beauty of the press," Bruce agrees. He makes a mental note to frame the headline and gift it to Jim someday when it would be annoying. Their anniversary, maybe. Or Christmas. 

\-- 

At the end of Robin's two weeks, Bruce holds an after-hours evening meeting with Iman in his office. He's been checking in on Robin every couple of days, when he can. Robin's definitely relaxed during the trial period, trusting Bruce's lead and losing the stiff formality he brought to the interview to reveal a charmingly cheery person underneath, always with a joke at hand. Bruce finds him as easy to talk to as Tiffany, and he's known her for much longer at this point. 

"I like him," Iman says. 

"Me too," Bruce agrees, running a hand through his hair. "But is he trustworthy? Do you think he'll fit in with Tiffany, with...the whole - " he waves his other hand in the air " - the whole Batman thing?" 

"I spent two weeks with him, and all I saw was an honest young man," Iman says. "He's as genuine as you can get." 

"But do you think the new role will suit him?" Bruce asks. Iman fixes him with a curious look. Her lips tilt up in the corners in that knowing way of hers. 

"He reminds you of yourself," she says. A statement. Bruce glances away from her gaze. 

"Yeah," he admits softly. 

"You also weren't sure," she continues. "Were you? When you first started out." 

Bruce sits back in the chair. "I wasn't, no." 

"Robin reminds me of you, too," she says meaningfully. Bruce looks up at her again. 

"He's smart, he's honest, and he has a real drive to do good," Iman says. "Everything about him is glowing." 

"And?" 

"And he could do a lot of good, Bruce, in the right environment." 

Bruce takes that in. Charities, Coast Guard volunteering, a desire for a career path that leads to somewhere he can actually change things, a dedication to things he's passionate about - evidenced by the background checks Bruce did a couple weeks ago, where he saw that Robin picked up the exact same hobbies in every single city he's ever lived in, no matter how short his stay. 

"You think I should hire him?" He asks. It's not exactly a question. 

"I think you should tell him yourself," Iman answers. "He's downstairs." 

"He's still here? At this hour?" Bruce checks his watch. It's almost seven. "I'll go find him." 

He shrugs on his suit jacket and follows Iman out of the door. 

"Thank you, Iman, for everything," he says, shaking her hand. 

"Anytime, Bruce," she replies. "Have a good night." 

"You, too." 

He finds Robin at one of the security checkpoints on the first floor, leaning over one of their sign-in tablets and fiddling with it. Bruce greets the guards on duty with warm handshakes. 

"Robin," Bruce says. "Can I talk to you?" 

"Hold on a second, Mr. Wayne," Robin says, focusing on the tablet. He taps a couple buttons on it and then triumphantly spins it around to show it to the guards. 

"There you go," he says. "It shouldn't lag anymore." 

"Thanks, dude," Martin says, high-fiving Robin. Bruce looks on curiously. 

"Anytime, gents," Robin says with a wink, then walks around the desk to Bruce. "What did you want to talk about, Mr. Wayne?" 

"Walk with me." Bruce bids the guards a good night and leads Robin away from the desk to talk in private. "Did Iman tell you to help with security?" 

"I - no," Robin says, rubbing the back of his neck. "I was, uh, talking to them and they mentioned they were having trouble with a lagging fingerprint scan, so I...offered to look at it." He glances up at Bruce. "Sorry if that's...not something I should have done." 

Bruce blinks. Robin's _apologising_? 

"That's...actually exactly the spirit I'm looking for," he says. "I'd like to offer you a job, Robin." 

Robin stops in his tracks. "A jo - I got the job?" He asks. Bruce nods. 

"You got the job," he says, and can't help smiling when Robin does. 

"Thank you so much, Mr. Wayne, I - thank you," he enthuses, shaking Bruce's hand. "When do I start?" 

"Well, about that," Bruce says. He gestures for them to continue walking. "The job isn't in this building." 

"Where is it?" 

"How about you meet me at Wayne Manor tomorrow morning and I'll show you?" Bruce glances at Robin to gauge his reaction. He looks puzzled but interested, one eyebrow raised. 

"Okay," he agrees. "What should I bring?" 

"Just yourself. There's no dress code." 

"It's a date, Mr. Wayne," Robin says, grinning when Bruce laughs. 

\-- 

"I'm Batman." 

"Did you forget your coffee this morning?" 

Bruce chuckles. They're in one of the parlour rooms to the right of the lobby - a very _particular_ receiving room with a specific grandfather clock in the corner. Morning sunlight streams through the windows, and despite the whole serious lead-up speech Bruce delivered about _utmost secrecy_ and a _very important job_ , Robin is still looking at him like he grew two heads. 

"I'm not lying to you," Bruce says. "I want you to work for Batman." 

"This is crazy, Mr. Wayne." But it's not disgusted, or at all serious, really. Still curious. 

"Let me show you something," Bruce says, beckoning Robin over as he stands from the plush sofa to head to the grandfather clock. 

He opens the secret panel and reveals the stairs. 

"Where are we going?" 

"The Batcave." 

"Batcave," Robin deadpans. "That's real Bat-original." 

"Just follow me, will you?" Bruce says, gesturing to the steps. Robin shrugs. 

"All right, but you first," he says. Bruce nods and leads him down the steps to the platform lift, and uses his fingerprint to activate it. Robin seems startled at the sudden, but smooth descent, and looks around curiously at the dotted lights down the shaft. 

When they come to a stop, Robin gasps audibly. Bruce wonders what the Batcave must look like through his eyes - huge and ridiculous, knowing Robin, but also improbable. Matte platforms and high-quality tech nestled neatly in every corner, parts scattered over tables, the multi-screen Batcomputer running quietly to the side, the murmur of a police scanner breaking the monotone. 

"So, Batman lives in your basement?" Robin asks. Bruce rolls his eyes. 

"This is Tiffany," he says, walking Robin onto the central platform, where Tiffany is working at her table. "Tiffany, this is Robin, the help I promised you." She's been in the loop the whole time, so Bruce already knows she approves of Robin. 

"Hi," she says, and holds out her hand to shake. "Nice to meet you." 

"You too," Robin says semi-distractedly, glancing around as he shakes her hand. "Okay, this is pretty wicked, Mr. Wayne. What's the catch?" 

"Mr. Wayne?" Tiffany teases. She looks at Bruce. "You better not ask me to start calling you that." 

"Robin, for the love of god, you can call me Bruce," Bruce reminds him. For about the umpteenth time. 

"Yeah you're pretty much in the shit now," Tiffany adds. "Might as well get chummy with the boss." 

" _Boss_." Bruce scoffs at the word. "I'm hardly a boss." 

"Resident middle-aged retiree, then," Tiffany replies without missing a beat. 

"Thirty-seven is hardly middle-aged." 

"Agree to disagree, Bruce," Robin says, and Bruce narrows his eyes at him. Robin grins. Bruce turns to Tiffany. 

"Can I show him around without you two ganging up on me?" 

Tiffany leans back in her seat and hums thoughtfully. "You got half an hour. Then I got no guarantees." 

"Wonderful, thank you," Bruce says dryly, and leads Robin to the Batcomputer. 

It takes pretty much the whole half hour to explain what he would be doing around here - mainly working with Tiffany to design smart tech for the police, keeping the Batcave updated with new city information, and tracking the various tabs the Batcomputer keeps on Gotham. He shows him the basic controls, but when Robin sits at the keyboard to test it out, he's already racing ahead into hidden software menus and barebones GPS services. 

"That's awesome," Robin says when he pushes away from the computer. "Is it just me and Tiffany?" 

"For now," Bruce replies. "We'll see how it goes." Then he sits down in the second chair, clearing his throat for a more serious topic. 

"There are other...optional responsibilities, too, Robin," he starts. "When I retired from being Batman, I retired from the whole thing - from being informational backup here, and from being out in the field. Tiffany has decided to take up both duties. Her choice." He looks carefully into Robin's eyes. "I only hired you for coding and data processing. To work with the GCPD in a remote capacity. Nothing more." 

"But?" 

"But if you do decide to work in the field as well, then just let me know. It's your choice. I'm not expecting anything more than IT." 

Robin twists his mouth thoughtfully, gazing up at the Batcomputer. His eyes drift across to the trophy case across the room, then to the suit and weapon displays opposite. They land back on Tiffany, working diligently at the table. 

"Would I get a cool suit?" He jokes. 

Bruce chuckles quietly. "You'd have to ask Tiffany about that." 

Robin hums, but his smile fades back into serious. 

"Can I think about it?" He asks. 

"You don't have to make a decision now," Bruce says. "Or ever." 

"I won't rush anything," Robin promises. Bruce nods and pushes himself up to stand, glancing around at the rough blueprints scattered around the computer. 

"Well then, there's only one thing left," Bruce says. "Are you happy to accept the job?" 

"Yes," Robin answers confidently. No hesitation. 

"Then I'll leave you to it," Bruce says. "Ask Tiffany or me if you have any questions. I'll bring down the paperwork later for us to sort through." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm hanging out at [halifax-jordan](https://halifax-jordan.tumblr.com) on Tumblr!


	7. Fifth Month: Part 1

"Well if we can't find them, we'll have to team up with MPD to see if they know anything," Jim says, nudging the door shut behind him with his cane. "Maybe contact the feds." 

"I thought we were trying to avoid tangling up with the government again," Renee quips over the phone. "Anyway, the Metropolis lead is a false trail." 

"Which means we should be looking in Gotham." 

Renee stays silent. Rock and a hard place, this fucking case. 

"All we had was Regina," she says. "But after...well, afterwards, Bruce handed over all her company records." 

"And we've scoured her personal records," Jim agrees, sweeping his hand through the envelopes on the desk. "She had no other contact than with the arms supplier, who's _vanished_." 

"Vanished from Gotham, at least," Renee points out. Jim grunts in acknowledgement. Then he spies an unusual letter under his fingers. 

Tucking his phone between his ear and shoulder while Renee talks, Jim uses his short thumbnail to tear the rough brown envelope open and unfold the papers inside. 

When he reads them, he nearly drops the phone. 

"Oh my fucking god," he swears. 

"Jim?" 

"I gotta go, Renee, I - we're being _sued_." He skims the letter. The trial is in two months. "Over - Over Freeze's case - aw, _shit_ , this isn't good - " 

"Over _Freeze_?" 

"I'll catch you up later," Jim says, already dialling the legal department on his desk phone. "I'm about to recall all detectives in the field, stand by." And he hangs up without another word. 

The next few hours are some of the busiest of Jim's life. He immediately recalls all detectives even remotely related to the Agency cases, and once words gets out to the precinct, all hell breaks loose. Jim is calling back names and badges every five minutes, he's replacing patrols at the drop of a hat, both his phones are _constantly_ ringing, meetings with legal are long and frantic - two months to prepare for a case, _two months_ , it's not enough time. They'll try to push the trial, but they still need a case, and whatever sort of closure Jim thought they might be reaching with Freeze is all blown wide open with the lawsuit. Suddenly he's digging through months' worth of evidence boxes on a concrete floor and digging up messy handwritten notes in margins from informal reports - books and binders and evidence overflows the legal office. Off-duty lawyers are called in. Legal moves from their downstairs office to an upstairs conference room just to lay out all their stuff. 

"Who the hell even is this guy?" Jim asks gruffly, picking up the notice letter just to read it for the fiftieth time that day. It's been four hours and no one is any closer to piecing together where to even _start_ \- related officers and detectives are scouring their files for anything related to Freeze, Jim's already getting calls from hounding reporters, and the GCPD's reputation is suddenly threatened with defamation for all this bad press. 

"Lawrence Crowne," Renee says, shoving aside notes to get to her laptop keyboard. "Business owner and CEO. No known connection to Freeze, no clue why he'd sue us." 

"This isn't good, Jim," Julie from legal warns. "Even if we win the case, the GCPD getting sued won't look good to the public." 

"This Crowne guy is saying we're fucking up the report," Jim says. "Something about our...irregularity of internal reports. He's subpoenaed every one, the son of a bitch." 

"He says we're _hiding_ stuff," Renee adds. "He thinks we're covering something up. He's already got his witnesses chosen and sealed." 

"Sealed?" 

"We can't know who they are until the trial," Julie explains. "It's...not usual procedure." 

"Yeah, I'll say," Jim scoffs. "Smells foul to me." Renee nods in agreement. 

"He's definitely pulling some strings," she says. Julie looks between them. 

"I didn't hear that," she warns. But also nods. "But he does have incredible influence in certain places." 

"Can you push the trial?" 

"We'll try our best." 

Jim checks his phone. Texts from Gotham Gazette, from Gotham Nightly, from the Herald - the list goes on. 

"I want an open trial," he declares. "As transparent to the public as possible. It might help keep our reputation." 

"We can file a request for it," Julie assures him. "We just have to avoid violating any NDAs already held with the GCPD." 

"Easy," Jim grunts. "The Agency isn't part of the suit. Crowne is attacking _us_." He looks at Julie. "You got any witnesses in mind?" 

"A few," she allows. "Give us a couple weeks and we'll have a finalised list. There's not many to choose from." 

The door opens. 

"Jim, we've got our official reports matched with evidence filing," Harrison says. Jim sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. 

"Bring it in," he says. "I'll help legal match it up to other reports." 

Harrison disappears and returns a few minutes later with a heavy paper box. Jim rubs his face and sets it down on the table with a heavy _thunk_. 

"I'm gonna be here all fuckin' night, aren't I?" He mutters. Renee gives him a sympathetic look. 

"I'm not leaving either," she says. "Not until we have some sort of framework." Legal nod with her. 

It's a long night. The city outside grows dark, patrols change out, the night cleaners come in. Unflattering fluorescents carve shadows into the lines on all their faces, cast the whole room in an unearthly, eternal glow. No one notices the clock hands move. 

Jim's phone buzzes - he's startled to see the time at the top. Seven p.m. 

_Are you still coming over?_

Bruce. Fuck. Jim looks around at the table, at the stack of organised reports in front of him. At Renee. At Julie. At the rest of the legal team that all refused to go home even when he almost downright ordered them to. They stayed. 

And so will he. 

_> I can't make dinner, sorry_

_Is everything okay?_

_> I'll see you later. Don't wait up_

Three dots. 

_Okay. I love you_

_> I love you too_

\-- 

Bruce doesn't usually think much of it when Jim stays late at the precinct, or when he has to cancel dinner, but there's something itching at him about tonight. A sixth sense, if he believed in it, a holdover from his Batman days. Instinct. 

So with a slight frown, he heads down to the Batcave. If he'll find anything about any new cases, it'll be down there. But it gnaws at him on the way down, the worry. Usually Jim would give some indication of what's happening, even vaguely, but this time just a straight cancellation. Combined with the fact he hasn't replied to Bruce's texts all day, Bruce is starting to think there's something very wrong indeed when the lift platform hits the cave. 

Immediately, he's surprised. Tiffany and Robin are still here. He double checks his watch; they were supposed to leave two hours ago. 

The pit in his chest grows heavier. 

"Why are you two still here?" He asks, approaching where they're gathered around the Batcomputer. 

"The scanners," Tiffany says. Bruce notices she's partially suited up. 

"They suddenly went quiet this morning," Robin adds. "And then recalled a bunch of officers, including the chief." 

"And Jim hasn't been on a radio in ages." 

Bruce's mouth twists at that. Jim usually likes to stay in contact with the guys out in the field, likes to be _involved_. 

"Is there something happening?" Bruce asks. 

"Nothing," Tiffany answers, scanning the holographic map. "There's no unusual activity." 

"Must be internal," Robin says. He brings up the GCPD on the Batcomputer. "And there's no alarms tripped."

Bruce frowns. Must just be a break in a case or something - but it's a huge disruption for something like that. 

"Maybe they got a lead on Joker and Harley," Tiffany offers. 

"Maybe," he allows. But it doesn't feel like the right answer. 

\-- 

The headlines the next day unfortunately answer Bruce's questions. _GCPD Lawsuit Over Official Misconduct_ ; _Misreporting Allegations Threaten GCPD_ ; _Commissioner Gordon Under Fire For Lawsuit Claims_ ; _Can The GCPD Survive This Legal Attack?;_ _Lawrence Crowne: Who Is The Man Behind The Lawsuit?_

Bruce sighs and turns his phone off, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

"I expect it won't be a quiet day," Alfred murmurs over his breakfast. Bruce nods. 

"Are you still going to work?" Tiffany asks. 

"I have to," Bruce replies. He restlessly unlocks his phone again. No new messages from Jim since last night. Tiffany gently touches his arm. 

"Robin and I can keep the GCPD covered," she says. "So there won't be any trouble there." 

"You didn't have to come in," Bruce reminds her. "It's Saturday." 

"We already decided." 

Bruce knows from experience that he won't be able to change Tiffany's mind. But it's a relief to know that at least someone can help Jim in some capacity, even if it's just supporting the duty officers and taking some of the weight off of the commissioner. Still, he doesn't like feeling _helpless_. What can Bruce Wayne do to help? Batman could probably investigate Crowne, could probably help find proof of the GCPD's innocence - but Bruce doesn't have that reach. All he can do is sit back and _watch_. 

It hurts more than he thought it would. 

"I'm going to go to work," he says, standing up to tidy his plate. "Might as well go in early." 

"Remember your battery is flat," Tiffany says. "You'll have to walk." 

"That's fine," he tells her, just like he did when she asked if she could use his spare juice to jumpstart her jetpack. "It's a nice day anyway." 

About twenty minutes later, Bruce discovers that it may be the worst time for his car to be out of service. There's a small pack of reporters gathered outside his front gates, questions firing before he's even closed the door part of the gate. 

"Mr. Wayne! Your testimony is major part of the GCPD cases under fire - do you know anything about the alleged misconduct?" 

"Sir, care to comment on the lawsuit?" 

"The prosecution claims the GCPD falsified reports - did you help with this? Did you tell the truth?" 

"Mr. Wayne, this lawsuit could be disastrous for the GCPD, are you rethinking your pledge to fund and support them?" 

Bruce ducks his head and pushes politely pass the group, lips pressed tightly shut. He's not giving them anything. 

"Sir, sir! How will this affect your personal relationship with Commissioner Gordon?" 

Bruce's falters in his next step, but doesn't turn to the cameras. 

"No comment," he says evenly, and continues walking. They don't follow him - a peace that won't last for long, he knows. Imagines he's already being tailed. 

There's no press waiting for him at Wayne Tower, thankfully. He glances in the direction of the GCPD a few streets over. Part of him desperately wants to call Jim, but he knows that with this case, any communication between them could be misconstrued. Especially anything _about_ the case. He pats his phone in his pocket and heads up to his office, scanning his fingerprint at security on the way. It's still half an hour before official company start time, so the hallways are empty except for some early cleaners and his assistant. Bruce greets them on the way before disappearing inside his office. 

Sitting down at his desk, he sees by the stack of envelopes that the mail person's already come around. In the flurry of letters that come across Bruce's desk each morning, there's bills, invitations, official notices, charity sponsors - and today, oddly enough, an official summons. Bruce frowns and cuts it open with a letter opener to carefully unfold the letter inside. 

_To Bruce Alfred Wayne:_

_You have been officially summoned as a witness in the case of_ _**Crowne vs. Gotham City Police Department** _ _..._

Bruce reads the rest in a state of minor shock, and then the final message across the bottom. 

_Due to sensitivity of case contents, the witness, Bruce Alfred Wayne, may not discuss this case or his involvement in the trial with any persons. Defence lawyer exempt._

An hour ago, Bruce was feeling helpless and miserable and wishing he could at least tell Jim that he knows what's going on. Hopelessly, he longs for that ignorance. Because now not only is he involved, he's a witness for the _prosecution_ , and he can't even _warn_ Jim that he'll be on the other side of him in court. 

Bruce reaches out to dial his assistant with one shaky hand. 

"Yes, Mr. Wayne?" 

"Call my lawyer, please. I need the soonest appointment he has." 

"Of course." 

\-- 

Five a.m. is an odd lull of time in Gotham. The clouds are the colour of pipes, the birds the sound, whistling away from rooftops and alleys alike. Bruce uses one of Alfred's plain civilian cars and leaves out of a side exit to avoid the early morning press gathering at the front gate, hoping to be the first to catch him. The tinted windows keep him incognito enough as he drives through Gotham. The only activity is tired retail employees letting themselves in security doors and delivery drivers parallel parking outside sleepy coffee shops with their supplies. The few buildings that are lit cast a weak yellow into the grey morning, a promise of warmth and safety inside their abodes. 

Bruce slows to a crawl around the residential streets. The houses are still dark here - except one. 

He knocks quietly on Jim's front door, tugging his hood forward more and glancing around surreptitiously. No neighbours are out yet, not even Nancy next door. But when Jim answers the door, he looks so tired and drawn that Bruce wonders if he just woke up or just got home. 

"Bruce," Jim says, surprise in his voice barely outweighed by the heaviness in it. "Come in." 

Only when the door is closed behind him does Bruce lean in to kiss Jim's cheek. He hasn't shaved today yet - or maybe it'll be his second shave of yesterday. He sets a brown bag on the table. 

"I brought breakfast," he says. "Just some stuff from home to warm up." 

"Oh, thank you." Jim paws through the bag and selects a couple pastries to chuck into his microwave on a paper towel. Bruce waits patiently by the counter. 

"Look, Bruce," Jim starts, rubbing the back of his neck. 

"I saw the articles," Bruce says quietly. "I know what's happening." 

"I can't discuss it," Jim says. He frowns. 

"I know," Bruce replies. He reaches for Jim's hand to hold it. "I understand, Jim, that's not why I'm here." 

Jim sighs. His shoulders slump, defeated. 

"Look, I'm just gonna come out and say it." He sucks in a breath. Doesn't look at Bruce. "Since you're a big part of the case, Bruce, I think...I think it would be best if we don't see each other for a while." 

"That's what I came over to say," Bruce says gently, squeezing his hand. Jim relaxes like a puppet with its strings cut. 

"We can't text, or call," Jim adds. "I can't say anything about it, but the prosecution is real pushy." 

"I understand," Bruce says, looking him in the eyes. He does. He doesn't want Jim to get in trouble over subpoenaed phone records. Not over a case as critical as this. "I just wanted to stop by and tell you that." 

The microwave beeps. Jim gets out a plate and drops hot croissants on it. 

"I'd offer coffee," he says, and glances up at the clock on the wall, "but I gotta go in ten minutes." 

"I just want to spend time with you," Bruce says, and Jim smiles. 

"Did anyone see you come here?" He asks. Bruce shakes his head, and wraps an arm around Jim's waist to just _be_ there. Jim leans into him and only then does he turn to kiss Bruce on the mouth. He tastes like an early morning cigarette and warm pastry. 

"Hey, I'll buy you dinner when this is all over," Bruce says. Promises. 

" _If_ this is all over," Jim mutters, but leans into him anyway. Bruce gently squeezes his waist. 

Ten minutes. 


	8. Fifth Month: Part 2

The manor is awfully quiet the next two weeks. Bruce is steadfastly _not_ moping, he's just...busy. Busy with construction demands and avoiding reporters and working on the new security systems Wayne Industries is developing. He pulls longer hours than he technically should. It doesn't escape his notice when Tiffany and Robin start staying for dinner as well, no doubt nudged by Alfred, who's partially moved into Rosie's house on the grounds but visits with dessert. 

He busies himself in the Batcave, too, idly toying with Tiffany's new gadgets while they work - although there's not much work to _do_ , right now, with half of the GCPD tied up in legalese. Gotham, thankfully, stays quiet. Bruce wonders if Mr. Freeze is out there somewhere, watching all this. 

"Hey Bruce, catch." The voice pulls him out of his thoughts. He spins his chair to face it - he's sitting in a wheeled desk chair in the centre platform beside the stairs that lead up to where Robin's sitting by the Batcomputer. Tiffany's at the worktable in the centre platform. 

Bruce leans forward to catch the glasses case Tiffany tosses his way. He opens it and peers curiously at the domino mask inside. Robin spins his chair around to watch. 

"An eye mask," Bruce says uselessly. 

"Prototype using the tech from your cowl," Tiffany supplies. "First step in condensing the properties down to glasses or contact lenses for the GCPD." 

"That's...inventive," Bruce says, turning the mask over in his hands. It looks slightly different to the one Tiffany wears in the field. 

"Try it on," Tiffany says. "You can test it out for us." 

She's offering him a distraction. Bruce takes it. He uses the ribbon through the sides of the mask to secure it over his eyes, blinking as he adjusts it on his nose. As a prototype, it's not made to fit or secure itself, so the nose is a little too slim for Bruce, but he can see comfortably through the glass eyeholes. 

"'Puter, load up mask demonstration," Robin says, tipping his head back to speak to the computer. 

"Loading demonstration 1.1," the Batcomputer responds - _responds_ , with an even male voice. Bruce's mouth falls open. 

"Wow, you guys really changed the stuff down here, huh?" He asks. 

"Just modified," Robin says, pleased with himself. "The voice commands were easy to program in." 

"Does it have recognition?" 

"Yep. Responds to me, Tiffany, you, Alfred, and Jim." 

"Demonstration fully loaded," the computer states, and holograms start appearing across the Batcave. 

"Are those - can you see them too?" He asks, turning in his chair to watch all five platforms. There's translucent cameras popping up in the corners of them, hologram lasers sweeping dedicated areas, even a few blue-hued turrets standing guard either side of the Batmobile. 

"We put hologram cameras around the cave," Tiffany explains. "Helps with training. So yeah, we can see them too." 

"The mask is in training mode," Robin adds. "So it knows to react to holograms rather than real objects right now." 

These two are going to surpass him soon, if they haven't already. Bruce didn't even think to make the cave more than just information and storage - he did his physical training in the home gym, and Lucius always tested the gadgets. 

"Demonstration starting," the computer says. A small countdown appears in the upper right of Bruce's vision, and when it reaches zero, his mask starts reacting. 

It's reminiscent of his cowl, the way it targets and points out the cameras and lasers - and even a couple _hidden_ cameras Bruce couldn't see normally - but unlike his cowl, it highlights them in red for him, and even marks out the area the lasers are guarding. 

"It reacts to eye movement," Robin says. "It's not the most precise yet, obviously, since we had to thin down a lot of the abilities so we could make it more widely useable, but if you focus on something with the reticle, it should tell you what information it can." 

Bruce swings his head to look at a camera above him, centring the small circle reticle on it. A second later, the mask zooms in on it, and a 3D spec pops up beside it to show its circuitry and hardware - a written description appears on the other side, telling him the technical specs. He looks at a laser next, and learns the model and function, and the best way to disable it. Finding the power box, for these ones, because they have an alarm failsafe built-in if they're disabled at the business end. So no shooting or bataranging it. 

"This is amazing," he says, gazing around the Batcave in awe. It tells him the turrets' bullet speed and how many rounds they typically carry. "You want to make this for the GCPD?" 

"For field agents, more likely," Tiffany replies, watching as he looks between cameras. "Or whatever they want to use them for - once we managed to shrink it down to glasses or lenses, we can make however many they need." 

"We're working on another set for detective work," Robin says. "So that will have the fingerprint and DNA database, which we took out for this mask." 

"What about the haptic gloves?" Bruce asks. "For scanning?" 

"We're brainstorming ideas to make them lighter. Some of them will pair with the detective lenses." 

"This is impressive work, you two," Bruce praises. They're an innovative team, and so far, Bruce has seen nothing but good, genuine work out of them. 

He unties the ribbon on the back and takes off the mask to put it back in the case. The training holograms are still up. Robin taps a couple keys and the computer closes the training run. The holograms flicker off. 

"Glad you like it," Tiffany says, catching the case when Bruce tosses it. "No clue how long it'll take to get it past prototype stage, though." 

"There's no hurry," Bruce assures them. And then doesn't really know what to say. Robin turns back to the computer. Tiffany continues disassembling the shock gun on her table. 

He checks his phone uselessly. Friday afternoon. No texts, no calls, just the same headlines about the lawsuit. A few exposés on Lawrence Crowne and the GCPD alike, including their history of working with Batman. Bruce's thumb automatically opens his message app just to close it again. He thinks about the last time he saw Jim privately, in his kitchen at five a.m. with warm croissants and dawn light only just breaking through the windows, and wishes desperately (and a little miserably) that he could visit again. 

"What are you guys doing over the weekend?" He asks, pocketing his phone. 

"It's my brother's birthday tomorrow," Tiffany says. 

"Say happy birthday from me," Robin calls. Tiffany laughs. 

"He doesn't even know who you are." 

"Eh, just say it's from the hot one at work." 

"Wow, I didn't know we got a third person - Bruce, when were you going to tell us?" 

Despite his mood, Bruce laughs. Robin wheels over to the railing above Bruce, resting his arms on it and looking down at them. 

"That cut deep, Tiff," he says with a grin. "What did you get him for his birthday?" 

"A couple PS4 games," Tiffany replies, setting down her tools to rest her chin on her hand. "I think mom got him a skateboard." 

"Trouble waiting to happen?" Bruce teases, raising an eyebrow. 

"Yep," Tiffany agrees, chuckling. "Robin, what are you doing?" 

"It's Coast Guard volunteer refresher weekend," Robin replies. "So fuck all, really." 

"What's Coast Guard like?" Bruce asks, spinning in his chair to look up at Robin. 

"Well, unlike you, we actually work inside the law." 

"You're a glorified lifeguard," Tiffany jokes. Robin laughs, brushes hair out of his eyes. 

"I'm a lifeguard who is sometimes allowed to use speedboats," he says. "Although they're just running refresher courses for us tomorrow. CPR and rescue and all the other protocol." 

"Suddenly, I'm glad we don't have employee handbooks here," Tiffany replies. "Bruce, don't get any ideas." 

"I can find an HR department," Bruce says. Then he glances back at Robin. "Can you pilot a helicopter, Robin?" 

"No, that's full-timers only." He jerks his chin towards Bruce. "What are you doing?" 

"Learning how to cook fajitas," he says. "Jim likes them." 

"Wait, I know how to make fajitas," Robin says, leaning over the railing. "Guacamole and everything. I can help if you're doing it tonight." 

"How do you know how to cook fajitas?" Tiffany asks, wheeling her chair around the table to be closer to them. "I've seen your kitchen, Robin, it's tiny." 

"Hey, look, okay, I got the first apartment I could," Robin protests. "I'm still looking for a good place to live. _But_ as for the fajitas, I used to date a chef." 

"A _chef_?" 

"Yeah, in college. He worked in one of the campus kitchens for a bit. Always brought back leftovers." 

"How noble of you." 

"Hey, I cooked," Robin says. And shrugs. "But I'm not above taking freebies." 

Bruce suddenly connects some very faint dots. 

"Is that why the barista knew your coffee order?" He asks, spinning to face him again. "Are you trying to charm your way into free drinks?" 

Robin flushes faintly - just like he did in Wayne Tower. Bruce narrows his eyes. Tiffany laughs loudly. 

"So maybe I was," Robin admits playfully. He rests his chin on his wrists on the railing. "But he didn't call me back, anyway." 

"Wasn't that during your trial period?" Tiffany asks, giggling. "Did you really try to score a date while Bruce was _testing_ you?" 

"What are the chances he would go to the same coffee place?" Robin counters. "Wayne Tower is _huge_." 

"Fourth floor has the best coffee," Bruce says. "I always go to that one." 

"Ooh, bad luck, there, Robin," Tiffany adds. "Next time try for someone that Bruce _doesn't_ know." 

"He knows half the city." 

"I do know a lot of people." 

"See?" 

"There are _many_ people Bruce doesn't know," Tiffany says, smiling. "I'm sure you can find someone." 

"I'll try my best," Robin promises, and lazily salutes her. Bruce chuckles to himself. The clock in the Batcave buzzes - Bruce jumps and Robin and Tiffany cheer. 

"When did you change _that_?" Bruce asks, pressing a hand to his chest. Tiffany laughs as Robin packs up upstairs. 

"Robin's idea," she says. "Since you have us doing nine to five hours." 

"Thanks for the warning." Bruce laughs and stands up to tuck his chair in. "Well, have a nice weekend, then, you two." Robin descends the steps to their platform. 

"Are we doing fajitas?" He asks. 

"I said have a nice weekend," Bruce repeats, making a shooing motion at him. 

"Bruce," he says, looking him in the eye. "I have CPR training at six a.m. tomorrow for the fourteenth time in my life. Do you want help with the fucking fajitas?" 

"...yes," Bruce admits. It'd be nice. 

"Thank you. Tiff, say happy birthday for me." 

"He still doesn't know you," she replies, swinging her backpack onto her shoulder and leading them all to the lift. Robin hits the main cave lights on the way past. 

"Hot one," he says. Tiffany gives him a _really_? look. 

"All right, say I'm the funny one," Robin allows with a grin. 

"Okay, we both know that's wrong," Bruce says, stepping onto the lift, and Tiffany cracks up. 

"I think we _should_ get that HR department, actually," Robin says. 

\-- 

"Okay, what witnesses have we got?" Jim asks gruffly, crossing his arms. 

"We've got a good shortlist," Julie says. "And we think our strongest candidates would be Chief Montoya, Luke Lily - " 

"Our Gazette reporter?" 

"Yes. As an independent witness and the lead reporter on the GCPD cases, he can verify when certain evidence was released to the public." 

Jim nods. "Good thinking. Who's the third?" 

"You." 

Jim's eyebrows shoot up into his hairline. " _Me_?" 

"You, Julie repeats. "Under oath, you and Montoya are the strongest assets we have." 

"Okay - okay," Jim says, sitting down at one of the many chairs around the conference table. The conference room is far from quiet - it's a hubbub of legal activity, full of lawyers and officers scribblings notes and reviewing files and discussing various case approaches. Jim looks out the wide windows. He can almost remember what it was like before they got taken over by this damn case. 

"You'll be debriefed on witness duty," Julie says. Jim waves a hand. 

"I know how to be a witness," he says, but not meanly. "How's the requests doing?" 

"Crowne agreed to open trial." Julie flicks through something on her tablet. "But we couldn't push the trial. Hard no." 

"Fuck." 

"That's one way to put it." 

"You mark my words, there's money behind this," Jim warns. "He's dirty." 

"Again, Commissioner, I _didn't hear that_." 

"Thank you." He sighs and sits back in the chair. "Okay, take me through what we have so far." 

Despite innocent-until-proven-guilty, burden of proof is a _bitch_. All the GCPD has to rely on is its own reports - and external affirmation of certain details, like from the Gotham Gazette - but if those are what the prosecution is _attacking_ , it doesn't look great in the public eye. And that's what Jim is almost more worried about, the public eye. If the police reputation tanks then who knows what sort of trouble will pop up on Gotham? He hasn't spoken to any reporters yet - no one has - but he knows it's only delaying the inevitable. He just needs to figure out which paper won't twist his words, which is harder than you'd think in this city. 

Their case is shaping up now, Jim's and Montoya's timeline now glued to legal backing with help from the legal department, supported by literal piles of evidence, from the internal reports to the newspaper articles, and if Jim wasn't so damn _nervous_ he'd almost be confident. Not nervous about the GCPD - he knows he's done things right, and he knows this lawsuit is bullshit, but what bothers him is _why_. Why is Crowne suing them? He's not involved with the case, he's not affected by it, and the grounds he's made for it are pulled out of thin air. He's a businessman - an investor, specifically, one of the richest families in Gotham, alongside the Wayne and the Elliots - and he's clean, as far as the GCPD are concerned. He doesn't even have an arrest record, because he's never _done_ anything, so why attack the GCPD over this? 

"I've been reading up on Crowne," Renee murmurs to him once Julie finishes and walks back over to her colleagues to continue helping. "Investor, also owns a few car dealerships." 

"Family money," Jim agrees. Renee nods. 

"There's not even a _hint_ of crime in his background," she continues, turning her laptop towards him. He glances over to see Crowne's spotless police record. "Not even in his family - they all got their money legally." 

"Then why is he suing us?" Jim asks. Renee shrugs. 

"I don't know," she answers. "Yet. I'll keep looking." 

"I think that would be a good idea." Jim glances at Julie and back to Renee. 

"I don't like how convenient this is," he adds in a hush. "Something's rotten in the state of Denmark." 

"Then let's follow it," Renee agrees. 

\-- 

The reporters get worse as the weeks pass. Bruce frowns and tugs the curtain shut, displeased at the group waiting outside the front gates. 

"You're being careful, right?" He asks. 

"They leave after you do," Tiffany says, hands on her hips. "And I've hardly gone out in the field since this whole thing started." 

"I use a back entrance," Robin volunteers from a chair, feet up on an ottoman. "They're concentrated at the front gates." 

"Okay, just - just stay low," Bruce says, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Sorry. I don't mean to be bossy." 

"I mean you _are_ the boss," Robin points out. Tiffany laughs through her nose. 

"It's okay, Bruce," she says. "It's a stressful case." 

Bruce sighs and rubs a hand down his face. One of the grandfather clocks in the manor chimes loudly. Eight a.m. 

"I think that means I'm out of time," Bruce quips, but his heart isn't in it. "I'll see you two later." 

Tiffany catches his arm on the way out. "Bruce, you know I'm always here if you want to talk." 

"Me too," Robin says - and when had he stood up? Bruce didn't hear a thing. 

"Thanks," he says, looking at both of them gratefully. "But I think I'll be okay." 

"Don't talk to the Herald," Tiffany reminds him. Bruce nods and she lets go of his arm to let him leave. 

He takes his time putting on his jacket and shoes, trying to formulate some safe, good answers in his head for the inevitable common questions - about false reports, about his involvement, about if he lied or not, maybe even about him and Jim, because _that's_ a repeated dig he's heard almost every day since the lawsuit news broke. He doesn't know how they know, but he's not surprised - they haven't exactly been keeping it a secret. 

Eventually, though, he's out of things to procrastinate with. He tightens his hold on his briefcase and takes a deep breath before pushing open one of the front doors and stepping onto the gravel. 

Walking to the front gates feels like he's walking to the electric chair, nerve-wracking and heart-pounding even though he's done press conferences and interviews and business pitches for most of his adult life - and alongside that, has faced up to violent Arkham criminals, has patrolled the streets and jumped headfirst into danger. 

Maybe it's because this time, he won't be the one in command. He won't be starting the conversation, the fight - he'll be filling in the gaps of whatever leading questions his chosen reporter tries to ask. 

The door in the front gate closes with a metallic click behind him. He knows he needs to make a statement. 

Bruce stops to survey the reporters this time, smiling politely until his eyes pass over a familiar logo. He breathes out a sigh of relief and nods to the reporter beside it. 

"Mr. Wayne, would you care to address the rumours that you lied about your involvement with the Pact?" 

"I would," he says, and leans into the Daily Planet branded microphone. 

"Rumours say that you lied," Clark says, looking intently, _meaningfully_ at him. "That you're protecting - and maybe still _working_ , with the Pact." 

"That is false," Bruce says. "I told the relevant authorities the whole and complete truth, and you can read it in the publicised report." 

"Thank you sir," Clark says, jotting it down in his notebook. "And what about the rumours about you and the Commissioner? It is true your personal relationship may have affected the professional?" 

"No," Bruce says firmly. "I cooperated with the GCPD in a fully professional matter, and I would never let my personal life get in the way of police matters." 

"Thank you for your time, Mr. Wayne," Clark says, and flashes him a warm smile. 

"Thank _you_ , Mr. Kent," he replies, and excuses himself from the crowd. 

The relief that settles in him is almost enough to overwhelm the constant pit of worry in his chest - despite their playful rivalry, Clark is a good friend, and a better ally, and far, far cleverer than Bruce ever publicly gives him credit for. Bruce appreciates it more than ever now, when he's just had his PR ass saved by a friend who he didn't even ask to help, who just saw the news and connected the dots and came of his own accord to join the reporters camping out outside Bruce's house. 

"Thank you," he whispers under his breath, and glances back to see Clark nod at him. 

Bruce smiles. Friendship always was Clark's real superpower. 

\-- 

Jim's phone buzzes while he's still in the conference room. He's meeting with publicity and legal to figure out what to say to the press, and _how_ to say it. They need a clear, strong statement that no one can twist - except that's impossible, because any reporter can cut up his context and frame it next to incomplete evidence and paint a horrible picture. So far, they've got the basics down, but it falls mainly up to Jim to actually phrase it. He's the one speaking, after all, and they've decided to do it today, in about fifteen minutes. He checks the notification. 

_Talk to Daily Planet_

It's Bruce. Jim frowns. Daily Planet? They're Metropolis based, not Gotham - but he wouldn't be surprised if they're trying to cover this too; a police scandal is major news. 

"We can't talk to Gazette because they're helping us with evidence," one of the publicists, Mark, says. "We need a neutral party." 

"No Herald," Julie replies. "They don't like us even when we have _good_ publicity." 

"Nightly?" Renee suggests. "I know it's more...sensational news, but they're largely unbiased." 

"Local and state are favourable," Jim adds. "But if we're aiming for true neutral..." He thinks about the text. "What about the Daily Planet?" 

"I didn't think about out-of-state publications," Mark admits. "But Daily Planet _does_ have a known foothold here. They might be a good choice, actually." 

"And they never went to us personally for sourcing on the Pact case," Julie points out. "They went through the official PR channels for information." Unlike local news anchors, who tried to catch detectives unawares for a bit, lingering outside the GCPD and City Hall while Jim was filing warrants and trying to fight the Agency. 

"It all depends on if they're downstairs or not," Mark reminds them. "Jim needs to make a statement before the trial, and our best PR will come from a strong leader on the steps of the GCPD." 

"See who's down there, Jim," Renee says, turning to him. "If Planet are there, use them. If not, I vote Nightly." 

"I'm in favour of Nightly," Mark says. Julie nods in agreement and pushes the prepared notes towards Jim. 

"Remember, no mentioning the Agency," she says, "and keep the focus on how the GCPD has always done the right thing and through the right channels." 

"Do _not_ make it personal," Mark adds. "Don't mention Crowne. Do not mention winning the case or beating the lawsuit, that'll make us sound like we're focusing on the short term goal, not the long term transparency the GCPD aims for." 

"I got it," Jim says kindly, picking up the paper. "Thank you." 

"Hey, just don't drive us into the ground," Renee jokes. Jim grabs his cane and stands up with a sigh. 

"I can always retire," he threatens playfully. "Then it'll be up to you to fix it." 

Renee laughs and shoos him out of the room - Julie and Mark give him a wave and then he's walking down the hallway to the lift, memorising the words on the paper even though he helped write them. 

Thankfully, he doesn't have any trouble with public speaking - especially if it's defending his officers. And he knows for a fucking fact that no one's messed with the case; he personally oversaw most of the reports, and he doesn't hire anyone he doesn't trust, and the only outside influences are the Agency and Bruce. The former have their side squared away in a highly classified government report and in footnotes in GCPD reports that say to refer to government activity. And the latter...the latter Jim trusts with his life. _Has_ trusted, multiple times, and never wavered, not even when Joker had him at gunpoint. Not even when he was dumped in his car and fumbling with bloody fingers to call 911. 

He folds up the note and tucks it in his jacket pocket as he steps out of the lift. At the end of the hallway he can see the glass doors of the front of the GCPD, and beyond that, bustling reporters. The closer it gets to trial, the more hectic it gets, multiplied exponentially by the GCPD's refusal to give out a statement. But they need to get one out before Crowne can, because he's been suspiciously silent since he sued them, and the only communication comes from lawyers and solicitors. 

Jim sets his jaw and walks down the hallway and out the doors, stopping on the steps of the GCPD. Immediately, he's swarmed with questions. 

"Commissioner! Commissioner, has the GCPD ever falsified reports?" 

"Commissioner Gordon, is the lawsuit true? Is the GCPD hiding something?" 

"Is your relationship with Bruce Wayne more than just personal interest?" 

"All they information is public knowledge, Commissioner, why _has_ this case taken so long to close?" 

Jim bristles at some of the questions - Herald, no doubt, trying to dig at him. He scans the cameras and the press tags, searching for familiar logos - he spots Nightly in the front few people, asking about what sort of defence the GCPD has planned. He sweeps the immediate reporters again but doesn't see a neutral logo, so he sighs and steps forward with the intention of leaning to Nightly, but a new camera suddenly pops up, along with a smiling lady with black hair. Her microphone has _Daily Planet_ emblazoned on the handle. Jim debates his choice for a half second that feels like an eternity. Nightly would be safe, and local, if a bit sensationalist, but the GCPD could keep a closer eye on them. 

On the other hand, Bruce's only text in weeks tells him Daily Planet. To break their agreed silence, it must be important. Or good. Or something. Maybe just instinct. 

But Jim's always trusted Bruce's instinct. He nods to the Daily Planet lady, stepping over to her. She smiles kindly at him, no shark teeth like the others. 

"Hello Commissioner, Lois Lane, Daily Planet. Would you care to answer some questions about the lawsuit?" 

"Yeah, sure," he says. "Go ahead, Ms. Lane." 

"Thank you," she says, and clicks her pen. "First of all, what do you have to say to the claims the prosecution makes? The GCPD has a history of open and transparent reporting, but Mr. Freeze's case is oddly secretive - why?" 

"The GCPD does indeed aim to keep its public reports as transparent as possible," Jim agrees. "And it's no different with this case - we have reported everything we legally can, and have gone through all official channels to gather information. The government involvement with Mr. Freeze means there are some details we cannot release, but that is nothing unusual; we have plenty of cases that need to stay confidential in some regard." 

"Very informative, sir," Lois replies, and shifts on her feet. "Another common question, Commissioner - why _is_ this case taking so long? Bane was closed over two months ago, and his involvement in the events, as the public understand, means he had as much contact with the Pact that Freeze did." 

"We're focusing on following all trails we can, and that's all I can say in regards to that matter. We're doing a very thorough check on all our leads. I'd also like to point out that Bane had more witnesses to attest to his involvement - the men that worked for him, for one. But Mr. Freeze, as far as we know, preferred to work alone." 

"So you're not stalling for time? Trying to hide evidence?" 

"No," Jim says firmly, and Lois nods. 

"Your relationship with Bruce Wayne," she says, looking up at him. "Mr. Wayne has already made a statement on the matter - I trust you've seen it?" 

"I have." 

"And what is your response?" 

"The same." Jim squares his shoulders. "I don't let personal matters interfere with professional. I would be doing the public a great disservice to act otherwise." 

"Just one more, Commissioner." 

Jim nods. 

"How do you think this trial will affect the GCPD's reputation?" 

That's a loaded question. Jim chooses his words carefully. 

"I think lawsuits are a part of police work," he says. "On both sides of the court. But it is _how_ the GCPD respond that is more important - and I won't be the only one to tell you that my officers have always acted by the book and done what's right - and we're responding with an open trial and open evidence." 

"Thank you very much, Commissioner," Lois says, and shakes his hand with a warm smile. Jim returns it. 

"I've got to get back inside," he announces to the general reporters. "Don't expect any more statements from me or my officers." He knows it won't stop them, but by giving the Daily Planet the scoop, he's taken some of the wind out of their sails. 

Hopefully. He doesn't want to find another group of reporters when he leaves tonight. _If_ he leaves tonight. 


	9. Sixth Month

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo, finally a climax!

_Jim's never liked seeing the bodies. It's ugly in a way nothing else is, in this job._

_"Who was he?"_

_Batman always sneaks up on him. It's like he's made of shadow, like he just ripples out of the darkness to materialise beside him._

_"John Kroger," Jim says. He sucks on his cigarette. "Not a good man."_

_"Serial abuser," Batman says, reading off of his gauntlet screen. His lips twist. "Arrested twice for assault."_

_"One for his wife, another towards his kids," Jim supplies. It's grim reading. He tears his gaze from the body to look at Batman. He jerks his chin towards the GCPD van behind them._

_"Let me show you what we found," he says, and walks around to the back of the van. He doesn't need to check if Batman's following._

_Jim gestures to the evidence bags._

_"A note and a watch," he says. "They were placed next to the body, the watch on top of the note."_

_Batman picks up the bag with the note to peer at it curiously._

_"Undeserving of the title," he reads. And frowns._

_"Check the watch," Jim says. Batman does._

_"It's set to midnight and today's date," he says. "Not indicative of anything."_

_"What's today?"_

_Batman looks at him for a long time._

_"It's Father's Day," Jim answers, when Batman doesn't. Another reason he's on his second cigarette of the hour - getting pulled away from a family dinner for a murder doesn't exactly put him in the best mood._

_"Of the title," Batman murmurs, still clutching the note bag. "So...killed because he was a bad father?"_

_"A terrible one," Jim agrees. "But might be the start of a pattern."_

_"Or just revenge," Batman argues. "Do you have any leads?"_

_"Not yet," Jim admits. "No DNA or footprints that we've found yet. You're welcome to take a look."_

_Batman 'hm's. He puts the evidence bags back down. "He was killed with a knife to the neck."_

_"Yeah." Jim glances at the arterial spray on the alley walls, like a grim Jackson Pollock._

_"Graceless, inelegant," Batman continues - always did have a funny way of thinking out loud, he did. Almost like he's talking to someone else. "This isn't anyone's work I recognise."_

_"Me neither." Jim hates to admit it. The last thing Gotham needs is a new mystery - they're already juggling an illegal gambling ring and a series of troubling break-ins. His officers are stretched thin guarding the next potential hits._

_"I hope you're wrong about that pattern," Batman says. Jim blows smoke out in a huff._

_"Me too," he says. "Me fuckin' too, Batman."_

\-- 

It's been a rough fucking month. Jim's burnt through too many cigarette packs and too many coffee cups and he's pulled more late nights than he ever has on the force in the lead-up to this trial. He checks his phone briefly as he walks up the steps to the courthouse with Renee and Julie, files tucked under his arm. They politely push past the swarming reporters and flashing cameras and 'no comment' their way into the building - it seems like all of Gotham's press has come out in full today, news vans and reporter groups gathered outside vying for a juicy comment before recording an entire open trial. The entire GCPD is under orders to not speak to anyone, has been for two months, and no one's broken it yet, so Jim has faith no one will break it now. Aside from that, he's feeling confident about the trial so far - they've got a solid case, and solid evidence, a solid team, and some very solid lawyers on their side. 

He spies a Daily Planet van amongst the chaos, and catches the eye of the reporter that talked to him before - Lois, if he remembers correctly. She smiles and waves at him - the man next to her tracks her gaze and gives him a polite nod. Jim nods back. The Daily Planet had actually impressed him with how carefully favourable their article was, with his unedited, untwisted quotes in bold bookending the beginning and end. 

Jim wonders briefly how Bruce is doing, if he's coming to watch the trial, if he's watching from home, from work - knows that Tiffany and Robin will be watching Gotham while the GCPD defend themselves in court. It's comforting, knowing that. 

They stop outside the court doors, the hallway thankfully void of reporters. They'll be let in once the prosecution and defence have all arrived and set up - with a case this high-profile, the court needs all the crowd control it can get. 

"You ready, Jim? Renee?" Julie asks. Jim glances at Renee. 

"Let's kick some ass," she says - Julie laughs, a surprisingly happy sound in the face of what they're about to do. 

"And take some names," Jim finishes, fixing his glasses as Julie opens the court doors. 

\-- 

_Months pass. To their dismay, more watches and notes turn up beside bodies. All with knives through the neck._ Didn't get the memo. Cheap. Malpractice. Trick! _They wouldn't make any sense on their own, but combined with the dates of the murders..._

_"Independence Day," Batman says of the first one._

_"Kidnapped his wife's children after they divorced," Jim supplies. "Kept them in a basement."_

_"Labor Day. Factory owner."_

_"Hazardous working conditions. Worse than hazardous. But nothing leads to any of the workers."_

_"...Columbus Day?"_

_"We assume it's a reference to smallpox," Jim explains. Renee had figured that out. "Since the victim was a doctor."_

_"What did he do?"_

_"Owned a pharmacy. Jacked up the prices unfairly high."_

_"Huh." Batman picks up another bag. "Trick. Halloween."_

_"Sexual assault," Jim says, and Batman nods. "Caught on video but not convicted. Disgusting, if you ask me."_

_Batman puts the last note down and studies the watches. All are set to midnight of the day of the murder - all days that are special in some way. The GCPD have dubbed whoever this mystery murderer is as Calendar Man as some sort of attempt at levity. Jim doesn't blame them. This Calendar Man leaves grim bodies and grimmer notes._

_"It's very public," Jim says. "Almost like he_ wants _to get caught. Leaving notes, leaving a discernible pattern."_

_Batman thinks for a second._

_"Veterans Day," he says. "So a military target, maybe. We can predict the day but not the victim."_

_"Or a government one," Jim points out. "We don't know which side they'll fall on." He tugs a folder out of his jacket. The night is thankfully windless._

_"Renee found another pattern," he says. Batman takes the folder and opens it carefully as Jim speaks._

_"We've arrested all the victims before," he continues. "And the trial has found them innocent every time."_

_"They've walked free."_

_"Yeah. We think this...Calendar Man may be trying to exact their own justice."_

_Batman gives him a look. His lips twitch up in the corners._

_"Calendar Man?"_

_"Forensics came up with it," Jim explains, smiling a little himself. "I let them have their fun."_

_Batman hums a laugh and turns back to the file. Jim lets him flip through the pages for a minute._

_"Judge, jury, and executioner," he says when Batman gets to the end. "Publicly cleaning up loose ends."_

_"Either that or trying to point out the GCPD's failures," Batman says, grim._

_"Those were not our failures," he says, stern. "We arrested them. We_ had _the evidence."_

_"You know the public won't see it that way, Jim." But Batman isn't accusatory, or disappointed - his voice is soft, sympathetic. Jim kind of hates it in the moment._

_"How about you stick to finding the guy, and you let me handle my own goddamn precinct," he growls, holding out his hand for the folder. Batman returns it, his mouth flattening into a hard line._

_"Yes,_ Commissioner _," he bites out, and steps away from the evidence bags gathered on the roof._

_He's gone before Jim can apologise._

\-- 

"I'd like to call my witness, Bruce Wayne." 

Jim balks. Forces his poker face to remain still - he's under scrutiny here, has been for the whole beginning of the trial, from reporters and the prosecution alike. Lawrence Crowne has sharp eyes and a sharper tongue, he's learnt, and his lawyers are equally equipped with the same razors. They're tough, but Julie's tougher. 

Still, it's a complete shock to Jim when Bruce steps out and into the witness box. He glances briefly at Jim, but then looks to the lawyer waiting in front of him. 

Crowne had his witnesses sealed from the beginning. From the first letter notifying them of a lawsuit. Which means Bruce has known for two months that he was going to appear in court. As a witness for the prosecution. 

Well, Jim doesn't have to wonder if Bruce was watching anymore, he guesses. 

"Full name and age, for the record, please." 

"Bruce Alfred Wayne," Bruce states. "Thirty-eight." 

"Mr. Wayne, is it true you were undercover with the group known as the Pact?" 

"Yes." 

"On whose orders?" 

"The American government." 

Bruce replies to the starting questions coolly, calmly. The courtroom is silent as Edward Jarvis - Crowne's lawyer - lays out his foundation with simple yes or no answers, slowly building up to his point. Which is to say, he's trying to poke holes in Bruce's credibility - both as a crucial witness for the main Pact report and as a person. Jarvis establishes that Bruce worked with the Pact, that he was under orders, that he knowingly helped Freeze after he got hit with Lotus, and that he has no idea where Freeze has gone. 

"Remember, Mr. Wayne, you're under oath," Jarvis reminds him. "Are you sure you don't know where Dr. Fries is?" 

"I'm sure," Bruce replies shortly. Jarvis nods and glances back at Jim before continuing his line of questioning. 

"You informed Commissioner Gordon of your possession of Nora Fries in a private meeting in the GCPD, is that correct?" 

"Yes," Bruce says. 

"Why did you meet with him then?" 

"I was bringing him lunch." 

"And does Bruce Wayne often hold private meetings with public officers about criminal assets, over _lunch_?" 

"Objection! Leading," Bruce's lawyer calls. 

"Sustained," the judge says. "No leading, Mr. Jarvis." 

"Sorry, your Honour," Jarvis says. "Mr. Wayne, I'll rephrase my question. What is your relationship with Commissioner Gordon?" 

Bruce meets Jim's eyes. Then he looks at the press gathered in the back. 

"Commissioner Gordon is my partner," he says evenly. 

"What kind of partner?" Jarvis presses. 

"Romantic." 

"And how long have you two been partners?" 

"Six months." 

"So, during the majority of the investigation? Do you not think that it's suspicious, Mr. Wayne, that your relationship with Commissioner Gordon only started after you were cleared?" 

"Objection!" Bruce's lawyer roars. " _Irrelevant_." 

"Sustained," the judge says. "This trial is about the police investigation, not personal relationships, Mr. Jarvis." 

"Sorry, your Honour," Jarvis says again, nodding politely. He walks to the other side of Bruce and presents him with a printout of security footage. "Mr. Wayne, can you tell us what is happening here?" 

Jim hates watching. Jarvis has needled hard on Bruce's supposed sympathy to Freeze, from helping him in SANCTUS to taking in his wife's body, and when it's all laid out like that, it doesn't sound pretty. All he can imagine is worst case scenario, can imagine Jarvis breaking down and twisting Bruce's testimony to prove, somehow, that he's an unreliable witness and an unreliable basis for an official police report and _really_ , the GCPD should have anchored their investigation on a steadier hinge. Prove that they're hiding something. _Protecting_ the Pact. When in reality, they're just trying to avoid violating their NDAs with the fucking Agency - Jim feels a new wave of hatred roll over him at the thought. If they weren't wrapped up in so much red tape, if the Agency just fucking cooperated with them, they could have closed these cases _months_ ago. Instead, they just left them in the dust. 

To probably no one's surprise but Jim's, Jarvis doesn't completely crush Bruce's testimony. _Can't_ , in fact, when Bruce replies with all the right answers. Well, right for the defence. The prosecution probably aren't too happy about it, but they still have enough to cast doubt over the GCPD. Julie steps up to chip away at it with her cross, so abruptly vicious and pointed in court that Jim almost doesn't recognise her from the mild-mannered lawyer that pretended she didn't hear him trying to accuse the opposition of bribery. 

Julie angles her questions to poke holes right back at Jarvis. She brings up Bruce's undercover status, and how he's a _civilian_ , and he shouldn't be punished or suspected for not leaving a man to die, however much of a criminal that man was - Jim can see that one hit with the jury - she chases up Jarvis's deliberately unfinished line of inquiry into Bruce's actions while with the Pact to expose exactly how much he was coerced into cooperation, both from pressure from the government and physical threats from the Pact. She even rips up his dig at their relationship, and pulls out evidence and witness statements to attest that Bruce and Jim were not romantically involved before the culmination of the events with Joker and Harley - Jim's eyebrows shoot into his hairline when he sees her paperwork. When had she even compiled _that_? 

Nonetheless, it works, and it leaves them on a bit more solid footing by the time Jarvis calls in his next witness, a scowl on his face. 

"Full name and age, for the record, please." 

"Iman Avesta. Thirty-two." 

Ex-Agency. 

Jim huffs through his nose and exchanges a glance with Julie. Her mouth tightens into a line. 

This is going to be brutal. 

\-- 

_It's a rainy night when Jim flips the Batsignal._

_Batman comes, although Jim wouldn't blame him if he didn't. He talked to him briefly at the crime scene last night - midnight watch,_ Dishonourable discharge _on the note. Knife through the neck. Grisly body. Usual MO. - but otherwise hasn't spoken to him since the beginning of the month._

_"What do you need?" Batman asks, walking to meet Jim under the Batsignal. "Has there been another body?"_

_"No," Jim says, clutching at his umbrella. It's a bit stupid of him, really, to call Batman over for something like this. "I wanted to apologise."_

_"You called me to apologise?" Batman asks, and he sounds_ surprised _. He turns off the Batsignal. Rain splashes on his cowl._

_"Yes," Jim says, then gestures to the door. "Look, come inside. It's fucking cold out here."_

_Batman inclines his head and Jim leads them to the roof access door, swiping his card on the reader and opening it enough for Batman to fit in behind him. It's cramped at the top of the stairs, but dry. And quieter, too, when the door shuts. Jim sighs and collapses his umbrella. Batman doesn't speak._

_"I'm sorry for snapping at you before," Jim says. "About the case."_

_Batman tilts his head slightly. Considering._

_"I don't blame you," he says eventually, his voice like gravel. "If someone_ is _trying to discredit the GCPD, it's only natural that you defend it."_

_"You sound like a lawyer, y'know that?"_

_Batman straightens his head again. "How so?"_

_"_ Only natural _._ Discredit _. C'mon, what's up with you?"_

_Batman looks away from him. Without the white glow of his eyes, the space between them shrinks._

_"I don't like it," Batman says eventually. "These murders seem too...pointed. All directly connected to the GCPD."_

_"I don't like it either." Jim's fingers itch for a cigarette. Batman pulls a folded slip of paper out of his gauntlet._

_"I have some names," he says, holding it out to Jim between two fingers. Jim takes it hesitantly and unfolds it. There's four names there._

_"Who are they?" He asks, skimming the short list._

_"People who worked on every case that's been...avenged, so far, that don't have an alibi for the nights in question."_

_Jim grunts in acknowledgement._

_"Kim Mavis?" He asks. "She's - "_

_"The stenographer," Batman finishes. He shrugs, an unusual movement with the thick armour. Not as fluid as it should be. "She worked all those cases."_

_Jim looks at the last name. "Julian Day. He's a defence attorney."_

_"Like I said, I just looked for alibis. I know the GCPD already checked the victims' known associates."_

_"It's an interesting line," Jim says, folding the paper up and tucking it into his pocket. "I'll double check it."_

_Batman nods. The conversation runs out. Rain patters against the metal door. In the dim fluorescent of the landing, Jim can almost pretend Batman isn't a total mystery._

_"Can I ask you something?" Jim asks._

_"Always," Batman replies, deep and smooth and sure._

_"Do you think we did fail those cases?"_

_Batman stares at him for a long moment._

_"No," he says. "I don't think you did. I think the system failed them."_

_"I_ am _the system."_

_"You're one part of it, Jim." Batman speaks like he knows more than he lets on. "You can't control a trial. You did your best."_

_Jim slants his mouth and looks away. He doesn't know what answer he wanted - did he want Batman to blame him? Did he want someone to tell him he shouldn't even be doing this damn job?_

_A hand appears on his shoulder, startling him._

_"Jim, you did what you could," Batman says, and suddenly he's much closer than before - which isn't saying much, considering this landing wasn't made for two grown men, but now it feels almost claustrophobic. "Not all trials are fair."_

_Jim catches the meaning - he knows there's questionable people in high places in Gotham, with far more money and influence than the GCPD. He knows that the only reason the military victim was still allowed to serve was a vested interest from his banker father. He knows that the Father's Day victim was only protected by his connections to the drug trade. They were more valuable somewhere else, and that let them get free._

_But he can't help but take it a little personally. Grogan always said that was his biggest flaw._

_"We'll catch whoever this is," Jim says instead, meeting Batman's eyes. He wonders, briefly, what Batman's eyes look like under the mask - would they reflect his own, crinkled and tired and aged more than his years? Or is Batman still young, still somehow sleeping through the nights, smiling through a day job and coming out at night to help the GCPD, helping to get justice?_

_Batman isn't that different from Calendar Man, at the core. Both are trying to clean up loose ends._

_Except Batman has never judged, juried, or executed._

_"Stay dry out there," Jim says, breaking whatever moment was between them. "I oughta get looking on this list."_

_Batman steps back. Licks his lips and opens his mouth as if to say something, but thinks better of it._

_"Get some sleep, Jim," he says, and Jim wonders if he really looks as tired as he feels when the door shuts behind Batman._

_The rain doesn't let up._

\-- 

Jarvis is like a machine. A fucking cold-blooded, bear trap of a machine, but a machine nonetheless. Jim supposes it would be admirable, in any other circumstance. As it is, though, he just hates the guy. 

Avesta answers her questions with a coldness clearly borrowed from Waller, short and snappy whenever Jarvis's questions start trying to lead rather than follow. It's downright impressive - Agency training is good for something, Jim guesses, even if it's just saving the GCPD's ass. No one can mention the Agency's involvement in the case due to the NDA, but Jarvis still somehow breaks down Avesta's connections to Bruce and cycles it around to point the blame at the GCPD. Julie blunts Jarvis's sharp points with her crosses as best she can, turns it back around to dull the shine on his argument. Brings up corroborating reports from both the GCPD and the press - points out Bruce hiring Iman has nothing to do with the case, or the GCPD, and Jarvis should stop trying to undermine a witness under oath. The judge sustains an objection at that last point. 

Next up is Agent Blake - _ex_ -Agent Blake, Jim learns two minutes into his testimony. Jarvis attacks him like a guard dog, ripping at his government employment and his personal relationship with Iman (and, by extension, Bruce) to try and continue to discredit the GCPD's case foundation. There's some _very_ dodgy questioning around his Agency contract that he definitely cannot answer, and some very incriminating rumination on loyalty - all of which Blake answers evenly and sternly, his face stony and cold. Jarvis raises more than a few objections with his line of questioning there. 

After Blake, the court calls a quick break for refreshment and bathroom. Jim ends up leaning against one of the marble courthouse columns outside, smoke curling in the air above him. 

"It could be worse." 

Jim huffs out a laugh. Renee steps out beside him. 

"Could be," he allows. He tips ash into the bin behind the column. "They could be fucking obliterating us." 

"Julie seems confident," Renee says, crossing her arms. Jim offers her a cigarette and she shakes her head with a laugh. She's never smoked. 

"Worth a try," Jim jokes, and pockets the pack. "And hell, I'm glad _someone_ does." 

"Are we watching the same trial? You saw Julie's arguments. They're solid." 

"Mhmm." Jim looks up at the mockingly blue sky. "It's not Julie I'm worried about. It's them." He jerks his chin to the fence around the back of the courthouse, where reporters are gathering at their vans during the break, taking notes and swapping out camera batteries. Thankfully, the courthouse hasn't let them on the grounds for this case, so Jim and Renee and the rest of the court-summoned individuals enjoy a relative privacy out here. Jim catches a glimpse of Bruce on a bench at the other corner of the courthouse, talking earnestly with Iman. 

Renee's mouth sets into a line as she follows his gaze to the reporters. 

"I think we can beat them, too," she says. A sheriff steps out of the back of the courthouse and cups his hands around his mouth to announce the return of the court for the Crowne vs. GCPD trial. 

"I hope you're right, Renee," Jim replies, stubbing his cigarette on the lip of the bin before tossing it inside. "I really fuckin' do." 

They shuffle in in various degrees of enthusiasm - across the courtroom, Jarvis's grin glitters with malice. Crowne stands beside him, looking somehow ordinary and cruel all at once. It's something about the eyebrows. Or maybe the way he eyes Jim up, like he's a shark and Jim is dinner. 

Jim scowls. He's not being anyone's fucking dinner. 

Julie starts them off with her statements, and then it's Jim's turn to testify. He takes to the witness stand with a tired sigh. 

"Full name and age, for the record, please." 

"James Worthington Gordon. Forty-seven." 

"Mr. Gordon, what is your current job?" Julie asks, looking patiently up at him. Jim knows the drill, remembers it from many, _many_ late-night practices in the big conference room legal conquered for case preparation. First, to establish him as a trusted authority and dedicated member of the community. 

"Police Commissioner of the Gotham City Police Department." 

"Referred to as the GCPD from now on, for ease," Julie says. The stenographer notes it down. 

"And how long have you worked at the GCPD?" 

"Twenty-one years." 

Jim breezes through the introductory questions, his answers backed up by internal GCPD records that Julie reveals when necessary, presenting it all to the court in a flawless demonstration. It's easy, routine, important for his credibility, but unfortunately not the section that could make it all fall apart. 

"Mr. Gordon, can you please confirm what this document says?" Julie presents him with a piece of paper. Jim sighs. 

"An official notice of the government jurisdiction in Gotham." 

"And what did this do, in your own words?" 

"It took the GCPD off the Pact case and handed it over to the government." 

"So you weren't involved with the case in a professional capacity?" 

"That's right." 

"But then Joker kidnapped you, yes?" 

"Yes." 

Julie leads him through the questions, her voice a calm guide as Jim talks through his ordeal with Joker, through the deal Joker offered him with a gun to his head. How he lured Batman over and got the map, how he sustained his injuries. It's grim, but it does exactly what Julie wants - proves that he has no shred of sympathy for the Pact, that he owes them nothing, that there's certain information Jarvis can't question because it's wrapped under layers of Agency red tape, and he's suing the _GCPD_ , not the _Agency_. 

Julie runs through questions on the reports next, confirming and identifying officers who worked on them, their trustworthiness, picking apart all the threads they've sewn together to certify each one and stitching it back together in a glowing and vicious tapestry. 

When she finishes, reporters are scribbling _furiously_ in their notebooks. 

Jarvis pins Jim with a mean-spirited smirk when he steps up to cross. Jim scowls back at him. 

"Very strong hand, Commissioner," he says. "I just have a few questions on some of the... _finer_ points." He shuffles a couple papers in his hands and shoots Jim a sharp look. 

"Can we assume that you know Batman's identity?" He asks, hard-hitting right off of the bat. Jim sees Bruce in the audience out of the corner of his eye. 

"Yes," Jim answers gruffly. 

"And who is Batman, Commissioner?" 

Jim grips the witness stand a little bit tighter. Revealing that it's Bruce would blow the whole case out of the water, a whole _new_ series of complications that would tangle the red tape into an impossible spiderweb. But Batman wasn't a main _part_ of the case, past Joker's trap for him to give Jim the map that the public, and the GCPD, chalked up to Batman managing to escape, afterwards. Only Jim and the participants know that that was how Joker got Bruce for his twisted little dinner party. They let the public assume he was kidnapped sometime earlier. It's filed under Agency business, so the GCPD don't have to report on it. 

"Objection!" Julie calls, saving Jim from the struggle of perjury. "Unnecessary endangerment of public figures." 

"Sustained. You have enough to go on, counsellor." 

Jarvis harrumphs and turns back to Jim. 

"We'll move on, your Honour." He flicks through his papers with a deft thumb. "I'd like to ask about your involvement in the reports." 

It definitely puts Jim through his paces. He answers carefully, evenly, never answering more than he was asked, establishes and re-establishes the GCPD's line of evidence and support, the witnesses they spoke to and the locations they visited. Unfortunately for Jarvis, Jim has no conceivable connection to any of the Pact members. 

Jarvis ends with a satisfying scowl on his face. Jim smiles pleasantly at him. 

"Good job," Julie whispers when he sits back down. "You completely brick walled him." 

"Just like you told me to," he whispers back, and glances at Jarvis on the other side. "Thanks." 

"Hey, it just makes my job easier," she replies, and stands up to call Renee as the next witness. 

\-- 

_Jim isn't there for the actual fight. He gets a panicked call from a patrol cop, halfway through his smoke break, about a rooftop fight between Batman and some other masked menace._

_"Damnit," he mutters, smashing his unfinished cigarette under his heel. "Radio for backup, whatever you think you'll need. I'm on my way."_

_He grabs Renee on his way to the car, and hits the sirens before he leaves the car park. He spies other flashing red-white-blue on his way to the address - a block of abandoned warehouses to the east of the industrial sector - and turns the radio up to full to hear what's going on._

_"Do we know who he is?" He asks Renee._

_"No," Renee says, flipping through the notes she snatched up on the way here. "We have a few names on our shortlist, and we only discounted two names on Batman's list."_

_"Shit."_

_"And that's if our lists are even_ right _," Renee adds. "For all we know, our Calendar Man isn't connected to these cases in the slightest."_

_"That'd be too easy," Jim agrees, and turns on a sharp right. "But I sure hope he is one of those names."_

_"Yeah, me too."_

_They arrive at the scene shortly before backup does - Jim parks messily beside the alley and jogs over to the cop that called him in the first place, Officer Hardy, who's holding position as ordered and looking worriedly up at the roof._

_"Commissioner," he says, then nods to Renee. "Chief."_

_"Where are they?" Jim asks._

_"They were on the roof," Hardy replies, pointing up at the massive hole in the roof. "Then the suspect blew a hole in it and they fell inside. There was a lot of fighting after that, but Cooper and Kilgrade went in. I was ordered to stay out here."_

_"Good job," Jim praises, and nods. "I'll go in. Renee, come with me."_

_It's not a mystery once he sees the front of the warehouse - the door is completely ripped off its hinges, a huge scrape in its wake on the floor. Cooper is reading the Miranda rights to who must be Calendar Man, whose mask is laying limp on the floor. There's blood puddled under his knees, but he's facing away from Jim, so he can't tell who he is yet. Jim recognises the matte black handcuffs on him, though - not GCPD issue._

_Batman waits in a shadowy corner, holding his side. Jim gestures to Renee to go to Cooper and he goes over to Batman. He hears Kilgrade call off the backup over his radio and ask Hardy outside to bring the car around._

_"Looks like I missed all the fun," Jim says, crossing his arms. "Who is it?"_

_"It's Calendar Man," Batman pants, and steps out into the moonlight. There's blood running down his chin and telltale cuts on his jaw. Brass knuckles._

_"Jesus Christ, Batman," Jim breathes._

_"Julian Day," Batman adds, looking over at the arrest. "Guess he didn't like defending them so much." He laughs weakly. "Don't worry about me, Jim, I'm fine."_

_"You don't_ look _fine," Jim says, and tugs out a pack of tissues from his pocket - a holdover from raising two kids. He has hair bands in the other pocket._

_Batman takes the tissue with a half-smile, wiping up the blood from his split lip and dabbing over the cuts with a wince. Jim has the sudden, insane urge to do it for him._

_"How did you find him?" Jim asks. Batman balls up his soaked tissue. He's still bleeding. Jim picks his radio off his belt._

_"Hardy, can you bring me first aid?" He asks._

_"Really, Jim, I don't need - "_

_"Shut up and let me help you," Jim says, gestures to a small crate. "Sit down and tell me."_

_Batman sits down. And grins. "It's the Saturday before Thanksgiving."_

_"And?"_

_"He was on his way to a hit. It's National Adoption Day."_

_Jim furrows his brows. "I've never heard of that."_

_Hardy shows up with the medical kit. Jim thanks him and pops it open - Hardy disappears to the car again. Renee and Cooper are cleaning Julian up with the first aid she keeps clipped to her belt._

_"It...was a hunch," Batman admits. Jim places the kit down beside Batman and takes out the antiseptic and gauze._

_"A hunch?"_

_"The list I gave you. I was trying to find if there was any connections to the days, or why he started on_ Father's _Day."_

_Jim leans to gently wipe blood off Batman's chin - then, when he deems that position too annoying, gets down on a knee for an easier angle. Batman tries to take over, but Jim bats his hand away._

_"And?" He prompts, balling up gauze to dab at the cuts. Batman sighs and lets him._

_"Julian is the only orphan on that list," he says. "He was adopted when he was ten."_

_"This better be getting relevant," Jim replies. "Being an orphan doesn't mean anything."_

_Batman winces at the sting of antiseptic, but the bleeding slows considerably. Jim finds a couple bandages to stick over the cuts. Batman's lip is still beading blood._

_"His adoptive parents were abusive," Batman continues. "But they bribed their way onto the adoption system."_

_"Oh."_

_"They were found dead six years later. Murderer was never found."_

_Jim blinks. "Six?"_

_"Knife to the neck."_

_"Jesus."_

_"Yeah." Batman sucks in a breath and winces again - but Jim hasn't put any more antiseptic on. He squints at Batman. Then looks down at the side Batman's clutching._

_"Jim - "_

_But before he can stop him, Jim peels away his hand. His glove is covered in blood, and so is the Kevlar lining under the armour panels on his side._

_"Batman, what the hell?"_

_"I fell through the roof, Jim. But I'll be fine, my car can take me home - "_

_"This isn't a falling injury," Jim says, stern. Batman sighs._

_"Julian stabbed me," he admits. "But I_ will _be fine, Jim, it wasn't deep."_

_"You sure?"_

_"Trust me."_

_And Jim always has. He nods and pushes himself up to standing with a grunt, scooping up the first aid kit on the way. He hands Batman some more squares of gauze and gestures to his lip._

_"Keep it on," he says. Batman chuckles but does as ordered. Jim looks over to Renee, who silently holds up a watch and a note, her mouth a grim line. Cooper urges Julian up to walk him to the car now waiting in front of the warehouse, its back door open. Julian glares at him as Cooper marches him by, blood marring his nasty frown._

_"It's on you, Commissioner," he says. "All of it's on_ you _."_

_"Keep moving," Cooper says, and pushes him along. Julian twists as she urges him into the car, a wild, feral glint in his eye._

_"You've_ failed _this city, Gordon!" He spits, and then literally spits blood on the ground. Cooper shoves his head down and closes the door. Julian snarls on the other side of the glass._

_The car leaves, but the words stay._

\-- 

"I need a fuckin' drink," Jim says when they leave the courtroom. Innocent. Found _innocent_ , somehow, miraculously, but it's not the end. Jarvis has damaged their reputation more than anyone thought he would, and Jim can already see the headlines tomorrow, quoting Jarvis's sharp remarks and pointed comments. One wicked quote from him, and the reporters do the rest with their digging. Jim pulls out his phone to text Mark. 

_> How bad was that_

_I'm quitting tomorrow kind of bad_

_But also you better be in my office first thing tomorrow_

_You and Renee_

_> See you then _

He spies Bruce leaving the witness room down the hallway. He so, so desperately wants to talk to him. Renee follows his gaze. 

"What do you want me to say to him?" She asks. Jim shakes his head. 

"I can't ask you to do that," he says. Renee rolls her eyes. 

"Give me a message or I'll make one up." 

"Okay, okay, tell him - tell him thank you." 

"That's all?" 

"Yeah." 

"Okay, boss." But she goes over anyway, tapping politely on Bruce's elbow to get his attention. 

Jim watches him shake her hand and exchange a brief, but friendly conversation - Renee must mention Jim, because Bruce glances over her shoulder to meet his eyes. Jim smiles at him. Bruce smiles back, warm and soft and Jim _aches_ to talk to him. His fingers itch with the urge to touch Bruce. 

Renee returns a couple minutes later. 

"He says he loves you, too," she says, grinning smugly. _Too_. Renee, the sneaky little - 

"Hey, let's get out of here before Crowne does," Julie says, butting into their little bubble. "We don't want any bad press from frowning at him." 

"Any _more_ bad press," Jim mutters. 

\-- 

His desk is covered in messy newspapers and disposable coffee cups. _Poking Holes: The Crowne vs. GCPD Story_. Gazette, neutral. _Can The GCPD Bounce Back?_ Herald, negative. _The Story Behind Key Witness Bruce Wayne_. Nightly, sensationalist, arguably favourable. _The Lawrence Crowne Affair: Is There A Fire Behind The Smoke?_ Daily Planet, favourable. And countless other online news sites, all running the same quotes, all running the same case. Repeats are televised almost every night. It's been a week since the trial and Jim still can't sleep through the night - Crowne lost the first trial, but he's nothing if not persistent. He's booked them in for multiple court dates, tied them up in legal affairs and arguments over specific reports that boil down to mostly semantics - but it works. It keeps Jim, and the rest of the GCPD, bogged down. It lets the press gossip and the public doubt. 

"Jim, there's someone for you on the roof." Renee doesn't knock, just leans inside his open door. Jim drags a hand down his face and reaches for his cane. Tiffany. 

"I'm going," he says. The sound of Renee's boots fade away. 

Jim tugs his coat around himself and heads to the roof access stairs - he should really organise a better meeting point for his knees. He keeps forgetting since Tiffany and Robin rely more on remote communication than in-person briefs, like Batman did, but Tiffany still visits sometimes. Jim's really hoping it's not an emergency; he's on a late shift tonight, as he has been for the past week, and all he wants to do is hunch over case paperwork and sign forms until his vision blurs. 

The night is warm when he steps out - at least he has that, for his knees. He walks over to the Batsignal and sits down on its concrete platform, pulling a cigarette out of his breast pocket while he waits for Tiffany to appear from whatever corner she's hidden herself in. Out of the corner of his eye, a shadow shifts. 

"You should really cut back on the coffee," Batman says. Jim's eyes widen as Bruce comes over to sit down beside him, flicking the cape out to pool by his side. 

"What are you doing here?" He asks, clicking his lighter off. He tucks the unlit cigarette back in his pocket. 

"Bruce can't see you until the cases are aired out," Bruce says. He grins. "But Batman can." And only then does he turn off the modulator. "I miss you, Jim." 

Jim doesn't know what to say for a second, relief and exhaustion pulling him with equal strings. But then Bruce tugs off the cowl and Jim settles on scolding. 

"What if someone sees you?" He says. Bruce shrugs, a playful smile twisting his lips. 

"I may have asked Tiffany to keep a drone out," he says. "She's patrolling the block; there's no one watching the roof." Then he hesitates, eyes flicking down to Jim's mouth. "Can I - " 

"You don't have to ask," Jim says, and leans into the gloved hand Bruce puts on his cheek to kiss him. It's _warm_ , warmer than the coffee that's replaced Jim's blood, warmer than nicotine, warmer than the sunlight that marks the end of Jim's shifts nowadays. Bruce makes a soft noise and withdraws his hand to clumsily remove his glove - when it returns, third and pinky fingers settling in under the bolt of Jim's jaw, it's better than a caffeine high. Jim slides his hand around Bruce's neck, into the hair at the back of his head, and finds it soft, loose, ungelled. 

Jim is reluctant to part, but they do. Bruce doesn't put more than an inch between their faces. 

"That was...nice," he says, licking his lips. He laughs. "Very nice." 

Jim smiles - it feels like the first time he has in days, like he's cracking the worry lines like clay. 

"I wasn't done," he murmurs, and Bruce melts eagerly into the next kiss. And the next. 

Eventually, though, they do have to pull apart. Jim drops his hand to hold Bruce's ungloved one between them. Bruce presses their legs together, hip to knee, and he looks unfairly handsome in the moonlight, tinged with yellow from the streetlamps dotted outside the precinct. But Jim can see the tired crinkles in the corners of his eyes, see the crease folded between his eyebrows, the spot he missed on his jaw when he shaved earlier. 

"I couldn't tell you," Bruce says. "About - about the witness thing. I didn't even know Iman was also summoned." 

"I know," Jim replies, squeezing his hand. "Crowne's a fuckin' shark." 

Bruce shakes his head. And sighs. 

"I can't...look into him," he admits. "But...I don't think he's playing by the rules." 

"We think the same. Renee's checking where she can." 

Bruce nods. And presses his other, gloved hand to Jim's cheek. 

"You look tired, Jim," he says, frowning a little. 

"So do you," Jim jokes, but Bruce doesn't laugh. "I'm fine, Bruce. I just need to get through next month." 

"I seem to remember saying that to you," Bruce replies, and now his lips twitch with the faintest smile. 

"You said it about once a month." 

Bruce does chuckle at that, but he doesn't let go of Jim's cheek. His eyes burn blue into him, piercing, _searching_. It's somehow more intimidating than the white glow of the cowl. 

"What's wrong, Jim?" He asks, and he's not asking about the case. 

Jim sighs through his nose. He looks past Bruce, to the glittering lights of the city. Tiffany's drone floats by the horizon. 

"I dunno," he says. "It's not the first time someone's tried to discredit the GCPD. But they usually...took matters into their own hands." 

Bruce's eyes light up with recognition. 

"Julian," he says gently. "Your... _Calendar Man_." 

"Yeah," Jim admits. "I guess." He sighs again. "But Crowne isn't as simple as that." 

"You got him in the end," Bruce says. "You'll get Crowne, too." 

" _You_ got Julian," Jim protests. "He was cleaning up my messes." 

Bruce's expression hardens. "Rigged trials aren't _your_ mess, Jim." 

"How many other ones could I have prevented?" Jim snaps back. "If we'd just found more evidence, or...or fought harder, or - " 

"You fought as hard as you could," Bruce replies, unphased by Jim's outburst. "You had all the evidence. It was corruption that freed them, not you." 

"We should've found Joker and Harley sooner," Jim blurts out, surprising both of them. But he guesses that _is_ what it comes down to, this guilt - right back to Joker, and to betraying Batman, and to the three weeks they had to _find_ them and _failed_. 

Bruce takes his hand in both of his. 

"You did your best," he insists. "I couldn't find them, either, Jim." 

"I should've fought back sooner," Jim says. "I should've - I should've _arrested_ them sooner." 

"You know Waller wouldn't have let you." 

"Well, then I should have fought _her_ harder. Not let her - " Jim slumps back against the metal railing around the Batsignal. Rubs a hand over his face. He can feel stubble growing in on his jaw. 

"I should've done better," he sighs. 

"Jim, look at me." 

Jim glances at the scaffolding around Gotham General a few blocks over. His heart twists. 

"I failed the city," he says, quiet. Bruce places a hand on his jaw and gently turns his gaze back to him. 

"You _didn't_ ," he says, firm, confident, _sure_. Jim wishes he felt that confident now, but the lawsuit has sapped it from him. All he knows right now is wallowing - probably a combination of too many smokes and too much coffee. 

"You never have," Bruce adds, softer. "Jim, it's _my_ fault that Joker got out of hand. It's _my_ fault that he managed to hurt so many people." 

Jim starts to speak, but Bruce doesn't let him refute it. 

"You got the map," he says. Jim winces at the memory. "You did what was best." 

"You _saved_ the city, Jim," Bruce says, and right there, like that, cooped up under the Batsignal with a steady hand on his jaw and a steady shoulder pressed to his and moonlit irises staring earnestly into his, Jim can believe it. 

Half an hour later, Bruce leaves, but the words stay. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm over at [halifax-jordan](https://halifax-jordan.tumblr.com) on Tumblr!


	10. Seventh Month: Part 1

Sunlight streams generously into the manor kitchen, splashing over soft red tiles and granite countertops, bright in that new springtime way that always reminds Bruce of dangerously hot playground metal and grassy, scraped knees. Beyond the window he can spy the telltale blue of delphiniums and hydrangeas that sway softly in the breeze next to the brick patio. 

_"Master Bruce, I really do advise you change_ out _of your uniform before - oof!"_

_"Shelley, don't run into Alfred!" With a laugh, Bruce catches Shelley by the collar and stumbles onto his knees trying to contain her enthusiastic nuzzling._

_" - before you get dirt all over it," Alfred finishes with a sigh, looking at Bruce's newly dirtied knees. "I had rather hoped you would at least make it into the house."_

_"Sorry," Bruce says unapologetically, grinning. Shelley knocks her head against his cheek. A warm smile crinkles the corners of Alfred's eyes as he adjusts the basket of berries on his hip._

_"It's all right," he replies, stepping forward to rub Shelley affectionately between the ears. "Who's a good girl?"_

_Shelley barks once. Alfred taps her wet nose._

_"That's right, Miss Shelley," he says. "_ You _are."_

_"Can she help us with the jam?" Bruce asks, standing up to brush his trousers off. He keeps one hand gently curled around Shelley's collar. She nudges her head against his leg and pants loudly, her tail thwacking the air behind them. "Please, Alfred? Just this once."_

_Alfred looks steadily at him. Bruce tries his most innocent smile._

_"I suppose so," Alfred allows, his smile gentling. "Just this once. And you'll be in charge of her."_

_"Yes!" Bruce fist-pumps the air and leans down to ruffle Shelley's fluffy sides. "You hear that, girl? You can help us in the kitchen! We're making - what are we making, Alfred?"_

_"We have apricots and cherries today," Alfred says. He begins walking again, striding easily across the paved path that leads to a raised deck and into the kitchen. Bruce follows with a lot of tripping over Shelley, who's so excited and bubbly that all she wants to do is bark and try to jump up at him._

Bruce smiles at the memory. He has a lot of fond memories of Shelley - without thinking, he glances out the window at the patch of daisies Alfred had planted over her grave, sprouting up near a neat bit of paved ground where her doghouse used to be. She was already past puppyhood when Alfred got her, if Bruce remembers correctly, so it wasn't a surprise, but it was a heartbreak, when she passed ten years later. 

"What are you thinking about?" Alfred asks. Bruce sets his stirring spoon aside and smiles to himself. 

"I was just thinking about Shelley," he says, turning around to face Alfred. "I miss her." 

"As do I," Alfred agrees, calmly pushing aside another finished label. "I was very fond of her." 

"I know," Bruce chuckles. "You made the rule to keep her out of the kitchen and you broke it the most." 

"Who could blame me? Don't think I didn't see you slipping her dinner scraps under the table." 

Bruce shrugs and nods. Yeah, he always was weak for her pleading face. Alfred laughs with him. 

It seems almost foreign now, thinking back to that time. Before Batman, but after his parents. Like a liminal space in his memories, where he existed but wasn't defined. So much different than his other memories - a trauma response, he was told, _compartmentalisation_ and _separation_ and all the terms that felt too grown up for twelve year old Bruce but not enough to encompass the odd and floundering disassembly of his childhood. Before Crime Alley is tinged with nostalgia and sweetness, vague memories of growing up and happy memories of his family - bittered a little by his latest discoveries, but not tainted. Maybe if he thought about it too much, he could, but he prefers to keep them as they are, like sepia photographs in an attic box. 

Afterwards is...much more fragmented. There's afterwards, and then there's _afterwards_. There's the police, and child services, and counsellors, and therapists - although the latter stuck around for many years later. But then there's his oddly peaceful teenage years, growing up with Alfred and the other minimal staff, going to school, getting _crushes_ \- god, so embarrassingly normal that he almost can't believe he ever _did_ his high school prom, but Alfred still has the photographic evidence of that - somehow carefree despite all that had happened. Despite the weekly therapist, and the PTSD flare-ups, and the many, _many_ dark and lonely nights that weren't actually so lonely after all, with Alfred and Shelley. 

Alfred had gotten Shelley shortly after Crime Alley - at the time, Bruce had just been excited to have a dog, and, in some subconscious way, to have another comforting presence in the manor. In retrospect, Bruce realises that Alfred either thought to or was advised to find some sort of therapy animal for him, or at least one good-mannered and agreeable enough to cheer him up and keep him company. So a Golden Retriever was perfect, and Shelley - the name she came with from the shelter - became a teenage companion for Bruce. 

He really doesn't thank Alfred enough. 

"It was nice having another life in the manor," Bruce says, picking up his spoon again to stir a bubbling pot of blueberries. Alfred calmly caps his pen. 

"Another dog?" He asks. Bruce shrugs one shoulder. 

"Or a cat," he says. "I don't know yet. It would have to be a mutual decision." 

Alfred hums. He sets the pen down. 

"Mutual, Bruce?" 

"Well, yeah." Bruce glances at Alfred over his shoulder. "Since you're still...halfway living here." 

At this, Alfred folds his hands on the table. Bruce turns back to his jam and stirs the second pot of cherries. 

"Actually, Bruce," Alfred starts, "I finished moving the last of my stuff out yesterday." 

Bruce blinks. "So - you live with Rosie now?" 

As head gardener, Rosie has a house on the grounds - but it's not contingent on her employment. When he became old enough to be involved in manor staff decisions, Bruce offered to give her the house if she wanted it as a permanent settlement. She said yes, and has since raised two kids in it - they're long moved out, but Bruce knows she takes care of her young grandkids often. It's another pleasant addition to the manor, hearing children playing in the gardens. 

"I do," Alfred says. Simple. Straightforward. How Bruce has always known him to be. 

He hears Alfred stand up and walk towards him. It's weird, thinking about him not living _in_ the manor anymore - Bruce knows he's just a building over, but it still strikes something inside him, like the end of a chapter. 

"So I guess..." Bruce trails off, not really sure what to say. Alfred fishes something out of his pocket and presses it into Bruce's palm. It's a small golden key. The key to Alfred's room. Old room. 

"The manor is yours, now," Alfred says, looking carefully at him. Bruce closes his fist around the key. 

"And if I may, Bruce," Alfred continues - as if Alfred can't _always_ 'may' - "I think your pet should be a mutual decision between you and Jim." 

" _Jim_?" Bruce meets Alfred's eyes. They're calm as ever, crinkled in the corners - but relaxed, and happy, and - content. _Content_ , Bruce realises. Satisfied. 

"There's plenty of room in the manor," Alfred adds. "But you already know that." 

Bruce sweeps Alfred up in a tight hug, presses his face to his shoulder like he's a kid all over again, but he doesn't cry. It's not that kind of ending. 

"I love you, Alfred," he says, and squeezes. 

"And I love you, Bruce," Alfred replies, his hand solid and steady on Bruce's back. 

No, this isn't the end of a chapter. 

It's the end of a story. And the beginning of the sequel. 

\-- 

"I think I want to go in the field." 

Bruce regards Robin with a sideways glance. He'd found him wandering on the suit and gadgets platform, something quiet and focused in his gaze as he studied each piece on the weapons rack. He claimed he had stayed late to finish up some renders, but Bruce recognised the crease between his eyebrows and stepped onto the platform to stand silently beside him in front of the suit cases. One holds Tiffany's suit, and the other is empty. Robin's gaze keeps drifting to it. 

"Why?" Bruce asks. 

"I want to help," he says simply, so simply it tugs at a loose thread in Bruce's heartstrings. Such a contrast to how he got involved in vigilante work, to how _Tiffany_ got involved, both of them spurred on by violent and sudden tragedy, but Robin is...Robin was _hired_. He's just doing a job. Bruce almost feels guilty. 

"I don't expect you to," he replies. "Not more than you already have." 

Robin touches his fingers to the glass. Looks carefully at Tiffany's suit. 

"I never told you about my parents," he says. "My biological parents." 

Bruce furrows his eyebrows. He knows Robin's parents died when he was young, but that's as far as he looked in the background check; he was more interested in Robin's history, not his family. 

"You don't have to - " 

"They were murdered," Robin interrupts. It stuns Bruce into silence. _Murdered_? 

"I don't know why," Robin continues. "I never learnt." He keeps his gaze fixed on Tiffany's suit. "The police knew who did it, but they never caught him." 

"There were...a lot of therapists," he adds, quieter. "When I was younger. And I guess they must've done a pretty good job, because I never - I managed to move on, somehow. Grieve normally." Bruce watches him frown in the reflection in the glass. He wonders how similar their childhoods were, after all. 

"Robin, don't make this decision for a personal vengeance," Bruce says, when it seems like Robin has nothing else to add. "If the police are still looking, I can help - " 

"The police never caught him because you did." 

Bruce blinks. Robin looks at him. 

"Who?" Bruce asks. 

"Tony Zucco," Robin says, his mouth twisting on the foul name. Bruce remembers him - slimy all over, dealing primarily in cocaine and counterfeit money when Bruce met him. He knew Zucco had killed people, too, but he had stopped by the time he popped up on Bruce's radar. But Bruce never expected for it to come back around like this. 

"I'm sorry," Bruce says. Robin turns back to the suit. 

"It's okay." He drops his hand from the glass. "I don't really want to talk about it beyond that. But...I get it, Bruce." 

"You want to help." 

"It's why I do the Coast Guard," Robin adds. "I want to do something _useful_. So I volunteer for them, and I'm volunteering for you. For this." 

Bruce hesitantly places his hand on Robin's shoulder. Follows Robin's gaze to the empty display case. Catches their reflections in the glass. 

"It's dangerous," he warns. Robin scoffs lightly. 

"So is being a Coast Guard. They still do what's right." 

Bruce nods. "As long as you understand. We restrain, we hand over to the authorities. We don't take matters into our own hands." 

"I know," Robin says, and glances at him. "It's actually...why I feel comfortable joining the field team." 

"Comfortable wasn't the sentiment I was expecting." 

"Bruce, I'm a twenty-five year old software geek. I'm not exactly itching to _kill_ somebody." He huffs out a laugh. "I don't want to. I don't think I even _could_ , if it came to it." 

Bruce laughs. He withdraws his hand and nods to the empty case. 

"Then welcome to the field team," he says, and watches Robin smile in the reflection. 

"Do I get a cool suit?" He asks. Bruce laughs again, louder. 

"You'll have to ask Tiffany about that," he replies, grinning. 

\-- 

There's a drug deal bust at the docks, an active robbery at Gotham Bank, _several_ instances of car theft and road endangerment, one failed attempt at stealing fireworks, _and_ a riot at county prison. The radio's been squealing all night - both of them, in fact, Jim's patrol one and his precinct-wide one, fritzing and sputtering into life every five seconds with updates and calls for backup. Jim has to keep muting his phone microphone to respond to them, which _really_ isn't helping matters on the other end of it - 

" _GCPD Ratings At An All-Time Low_?!" The governor bellows, paper crumpling on his end. "This is completely unacceptable - do you know how much public support I gave you? How much I backed this case? If you keep circling the drain, you'll be ending _my_ career, too!" 

"We're not circling," Jim grunts, hurriedly flicking between radio and phone. "I promise you those ratings are just preliminary - it's only been two weeks since the trial. Public opinion will change - " 

" _To Defect And Swerve_ \- who _writes_ this drivel?" 

_Herald_ , Jim thinks, but doesn't voice. He mutes himself while the governor rants. 

"Green, what's the situation at county? Over." He asks into the radio. 

"Riot gear and tactical officers deployed," Green responds. "We're getting a handle on it. Over." 

"Keep me updated. Over and out." 

" - just keep asking me about _you_ , I can't even discuss the new hospital without someone finding a way to bring you up!" The governor finishes. 

"APB out for Kelly Maza," the patrol radio crackles. "Description to follow..." 

Jim unmutes the phone. "I promise this will die down, governor, we just need time. " 

"You don't _have_ time!" He roars. Jim winces at the volume. 

"We beat the trial," he continues. "The public will calm down, it'll just take - " 

"If you don't make this right, Commissioner, I _will_ ," the governor threatens, and hangs up with a slam that echoes through Jim's ears. 

"Well, yeah, fuck you too," he mutters at the dead line, and pockets his phone. Threatening to cut his job over a fucking PR disaster - he hasn't served the GCPD for twenty-one years just to be fired because of fucking _politics_. 

"Lloyd, are the suspects in custody? Over." 

"Suspects are locked in for the night," Lloyd confirms. "Fireworks are in lockup for now, we'll return them in the morning. Over." 

"Good." Jim pinches the bridge of his nose and rubs. That's _one_ crisis dealt with, for now. Even if it's a minor one - at least they won't have stolen fireworks popping up later. "Redirect your unit to the bank. We need to get that under control. Over and out." 

"Roger that. Over and out." 

Jim takes a second to suck in a deep breath through his nose and blow it out through his mouth - 

"Jim! Jim, we're under fire, there's - " the radio fizzes out with a burst of gunfire and Jim frantically presses the button to respond. Not even a second to _breathe_ , in this city. 

"Hello? _Hello_?" He checks the frequency. Bank unit. "Moore, Thaw, is that you? What's going on? Over." 

The radio spits up static, but the voice fights through. 

"They brought backup," Moore says. "And they're damaging the radios somehow - " his words get lost in a garble and more gunfire, and Jim picks up his cane in preparation for heading down to the surveillance room - 

" - guns, big ones. Another truck of 'em," Moore continues, panting. Jim strides out of his office and clicks the radio. 

"Moore, you're cutting out, can you report on - " 

" - sorry Jim, I can't hear you." Moore pauses with more gunfire. "They're hemming us in, we can't - " and breaks off with a terrifying crunch and a shout. Jim pales. 

"Moore, I'm calling SWAT," he says, and dials up his third radio - the emergency one - to do just that - 

"No need," a voice says over the first radio, loud and clear. "We've got 'em, Jim." 

Jim has never been so relieved to hear Robin's voice. He sighs in relief as he enters the surveillance room, watching the bank security feeds over the duty officers' shoulders. 

"Is Moore okay? How are the rest?" He asks. 

"Moore's got a broken arm," Robin responds. "Others are fine. Some unconscious, but Stormcloud's mask says their vitals are stable." 

On screen, Jim watches a gunman suddenly jolt and falls to the ground on his knees. Tiffany dives into view to unload his gun and points her wrist at another approaching enemy to fire more shock darts at him. Her drones circle the air above her, easily dodging bullets and firing back with tranqs. She boosts away from a punch and jetpacks right back to kick the guy instead, planting her feet in his chest with a grunt that Jim hears over the radio and pushing off to propel herself over to the other line of gunmen. 

"You'll wanna call an ambulance," Robin says. Jim can hear him smiling. "Or a few." 

"Already have them on standby," Jim responds. He places a hand on an officer's shoulder to get her attention. "Let me know if they run into trouble, okay?" 

"Will do, boss." 

"Stormcloud, stay in touch," Jim says, and receives confirmation from both of them before switching to his other radio to phone in a couple more ambulances and get updates on the other Gotham disasters. 

If it wasn't so hectic, he might actually like the change of pace - it beats sitting at his desk drowning in bad press and endless case preparation. He's read evidence files so many times over that he's started seeing them in his _sleep_. 

As it is, though, they're stretched way too thin. 

"Docks, update. Over." 

"Assets seized and some suspects subdued. Over." Leon replies. 

"Some? Do you need backup? Over." 

"Unit 4 is in pedestrian pursuit. No backup needed, should be resolved within the hour. Over." 

"Good job," Jim praises. "Keep me in the loop. Over and out." He clips the radio to his belt. 

"Thought I'd find you down here." 

Jim looks up at the voice to see Renee leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. 

"And what about it?" He asks, walking over to leave. Renee lets him pass and follows him down the hallway. 

"You were supposed to leave two hours ago," she says. 

"Yeah, well, shit's creek, no paddle," Jim grunts, pushing open the door to the break room. His radios crackle with static. 

"You have a court appearance tomorrow, Jim." 

"It's in the afternoon." Jim pulls a bag of coffee grounds out from the cupboard and pours it into the machine. He glances sidelong at Renee. "You're scheduled to be there, too." 

Renee looks away from him. Jim laughs. 

"Pot, kettle," he says, and turns the machine on. Renee cracks a smile. 

"Okay, you got me," she says. "But seriously, hand over to me. Go the fuck home." 

"And I would love to." Jim grabs two mugs from the dishwasher. "Except the _governor_ just threatened to _fire_ me if we didn't get our PR under control." 

"Jesus Christ," Renee mutters, slumping against the fridge. "You told him it's a matter of time, right?" 

"I told him about every damn reason under the sun. Told me to make things right or he will." The machine starts dripping coffee into the big glass pot. 

Renee swears in Spanish under her breath. Jim chuckles. 

"So what're you gonna do?" She asks. 

" _First_ , I'm gonna get Gotham under control," he says. As if on cue, the emergency radio buzzes to life. They listen silently as county prison calls a SWAT backup, and as the bank team request - 

"A _fire_ truck? _Bomb disposal_?" Jim asks into his first radio. "Moore - " 

"It's the vault," Moore interrupts. "Whatever they rigged it with went off, but we don't know if there's any more in there. Contained explosion, restricted by the metal walls of the vault - no injuries or casualties from it, and the sprinklers are going, but the fire could spread. Seems they're just trying to destroy the bank instead of robbing it now. Over." 

"I'm sending more backup," Jim says through gritted teeth. "You pull your men out of there if it's too dangerous, you hear me, Moore? Over." 

"I hear you, Jim. We're doing all right out here, though. Stormcloud has disarmed most of the guys, so we're cuffing whoever we can and getting them in a car. Over and out." 

"C4," Robin says out of nowhere. "Seems they had controlled discs of it - probably as a backup in case they couldn't open the vault door. Over." 

"How's Stormcloud? Over." Jim asks. 

"I'm fine," Tiffany responds with a grunt. A loud _thwack_ resounds in her background. "I'm grounded because of these assholes' fire, but I can still fucking _kick_ them - " followed by a thud of a boot, " - yeah, how did that feel?" 

"She's good," Robin replies, politely cutting off Tiffany's audio when it devolves into fighting sounds. "County needs support; I'd call in the helicopters if I were you, Jim. Over and out." 

Jim puts the radio down again. The coffee machine finishes chugging along with a quiet _beep_. 

" _Second_ ," he says, as if they hadn't been interrupted. "I'm going to review my case files and beat that motherfucking Crowne in court for the third time." 

"You'd think he lose some steam," Renee says. Jim starts pouring coffee into their mugs. 

"You'd think. Asshole." 

Renee plucks a couple sugar packets to stir into her coffee. Jim rests his cane beside him and leans against the counter to hold his in both hands, letting the heat scald through his skin. 

"Y'know, for one of the wealthiest guys in Gotham, he has a...surprising _lack_ of offshore accounts," Renee says calmly. "He likes to keep his money local." 

Jim raises an eyebrow. If you're rich in Gotham _and_ keeping your money local, that tends to means one of two things. Either you're moonlighting as a bat, or you're doing something that requires you to be able to constantly be shifting funds in the local community as a cover. 

"He's an investor," Jim replies, equally calmly. "Deals with a lot of money with a lot of people." 

"He does," Renee allows. Jim waits patiently for the other shoe to drop while he sips his coffee. Too hot. He burns his tongue. 

"He keeps meticulous receipts," she continues. " _Too_ meticulous. Even his dry cleaners' account is squared away."

"And?" 

"And he doesn't have a personal accountant." 

Jim's eyes widen. Renee nods. 

"He's hiding something," Jim says. 

"He's hiding something," Renee agrees. No one works in _investing_ without an _accountant_. 

"Keep looking." Jim glances at her. She meets his gaze. It's a bit ridiculous, really, covert coffee room conversations about a potential investigation into Crowne, but Jim doesn't want to put a foot forward without a stair underneath it. At best, it would look like retaliation from the GCPD, like they couldn't handle an honest trial - at worst, it would look like abuse of power. 

But if he handles his own accounts... 

"I'm already double-checking his public finances." 

"Good. Let me know if anything comes up." 

"All I can say is that you might get that investigation after all, Jim." 

\-- 

Gotham is gunmetal grey through the windows, a thick, steel blanket that permeates the skyscrapers over in the business sector and shrouds the steeples of the churches. For Jim's house, though, it just lays there far above him, that painful white-grey burn outside his windows. Miserable weather that makes his knees ache more than usual, although right now they tingle oddly with heat gel. 

Jim's used to an empty house. Has been for years, ever since Nancy moved out and back next door. He's no stranger to pouring himself a lonely coffee in the late morning light. No stranger to the phantom weight of someone beside him. It doesn't mean he has to like it, though. 

He misses the domesticity of the manor, if he's honest. Misses _Bruce_. Misses making breakfast with him in the neat, cosy kitchen, flipping spatulas and stealing kisses between dark roast coffee. Misses just _being_ with him, warm and comfortable and _happy_. 

It wasn't too long ago, really, that Bruce had said something like goodbye to him in this very room, sweet and understanding and far, _far_ too good for Jim. 

_"Hey, I'll buy you dinner when this is all over," Bruce says. Promises._

Jim sure hopes he'll stick to that promise. 

He checks his phone uselessly while eggs bubble in the pan. He wants to tell Bruce about everything, about trying to bust Crowne, about the trial, about the late nights. 

No texts, as expected. No headline news about any Wayne Enterprises projects. 

Jim locks his phone. He wonders what Bruce is up to now, under the same gunmetal grey sky. 

\-- 

"What about this?" 

"Oh, I didn't realise you wanted to bring disco back! We can do that - " 

"Okay, fuck you, too, some colour doesn't make an outfit _disco_ \- " 

"I really think we should be focusing on the tech side of this," Bruce says, looking between Robin and Tiffany. He glances at one of the suit sketches on the table. "You can decide your...questionable colour choices later." 

"Wow, you too, Bruce?" Robin says, but smiles as he leans back in his chair. "All right then, hit me, Tiff, what are we doing?" 

"I mean, you got a lot of options," Tiffany says, spinning her tablet around to swipe through gadget images for them. "But it's up to your fighting style, really. You could do something more Bruce's style - his suit was designed with more physical fighting in mind, so it's got more padding than mine, but also plenty of room for his gadgets. Mine is lighter so I can dodge more easily and use the drones instead. I can make you a jetpack as well." 

Robin twists his mouth up in thought. 

"No jetpack," he says. 

"Fear of heights?" Tiffany teases. 

"No, but I don't want the weight," Robin says. "Definitely something light. Light as you can." 

Bruce blinks. _Light_? Hell, he remembers getting a boot to the chest through _his_ thick armour. It wasn't pleasant. 

"You realise you'll be _fighting_ , right? Have you ever even punched someone?" He asks, leaning forward in his chair. 

"Bruce, calm down," Robin says, holding up a hand. "This isn't my first rodeo. I know how to fight. And I won't be _punching_ , I'll be _kicking_." 

"A page out of your book," Tiffany jokes at Bruce. "I like it. Where'd you learn that, Robin?" 

"Coast Guard has defence training," Robin starts, listing it off with a finger. "And I did gymnastics through college as a hobby. And I once had an older brother who was _really_ into martial arts, so I've taken a couple courses of _those_ \- " 

"Oh, so you're accidentally the best man for the job," Tiffany notes calmly. "Okay, cool." 

Robin shrugs sheepishly. "Sorry?" 

"Hey, don't apologise for being the easiest recruit," she replies. "Just means I don't have to train you. Which, honestly, thank _god_." She turns to Bruce. "Did you actually have a plan for training someone new or?" 

"I still know some moves," Bruce says with a laugh. "I can spar with them. And I probably would have paid for lessons of their choice." 

"Is the sparring still on the table?" Robin asks, eyebrows raised. "I want to see if I can take down Batman." 

"You should be more worried about Tiffany," Bruce says with a laugh, nodding to her. 

"I have killed a man," she says casually. Bruce rests his fingers on his temple, closes his eyes and tries very hard to suppress a smile despite himself. 

"How's that HR department coming along?" Robin asks. "Bruce, any word?" 

Bruce shakes his head. Tiffany giggles. 

"Back to the matter at hand," Bruce says, and lifts his head again. "You're gonna need a code name." He pauses. "But make it something cool, like Tiffany's." 

"Thanks," Tiffany says, grinning. She turns back to Robin. "Stormcloud is because of the shock and sonar gadgets I use. Kinda like thunder and lightning. Although I would've been Flamebird if my electric whip worked." 

"I'm sorry, your _what_?" 

"Don't worry about it Bruce, it remains a prototype." 


	11. Seventh Month: Part 2

Bruce is having trouble shaking off the restlessness that he's so unused to - with all of Wayne Enterprises's projects off the ground and all construction going smoothly, it leaves him little else to do at work other than just checking in with his employees and running the business normally. They're currently in a blueprint period for a new security system, but it's still in the planning room on the fifth floor. Bruce joins the meetings to listen to the developers and help test out some of the preexisting systems to figure out how to fine-tune them for the new model. 

It's good, steady work. And with the corporate side sailing on its own for now, buoyed by the positive press and Iman's calm leadership of the industrial side of the projects, Bruce can leave it captainless for a bit. The investors are pleased, the employee union is pleased, management has no complaints, and customer sales have been at an all-time high. 

And much like Wayne Enterprises, the Batman side of things is also running itself a lot more smoothly now. A second person has really boosted both their range and their abilities, informational _and_ field-wise, and while he does check in with them every couple of days, he doesn't really _need_ to anymore. Hasn't needed to for a while, if he's honest, but he likes to keep in touch with that side - he may have shed the suit, but he can't shed the instinct. Although it does help that he's left the vigilantism the very, _very_ capable hands of Tiffany and Robin. 

As for his personal life, well. Jim's still tangled up in a web of lawsuit technicalities, and although Bruce is no longer an active part of the case, neither of them want to risk the scrutiny. So they stay apart. Bruce has learnt firsthand that absence really _does_ make the heart grow fonder. 

So in lieu of any of his professional or vigilante work, he starts picking up some old hobbies that fell to the wayside. Making jam, fixing up some of the furniture collecting dust around the place - a burgeoning hobby his parents had never entertained when he'd first found it interesting and had asked Alfred to show him some DIY. But he's an adult now, and although he can afford to pay for repairs, he _likes_ working with his hands, likes sanding down warped edges and polishing them over for a pristine, glossy sheen. It's the sort of DIY that keeps him occupied but also challenges him sometimes, with the neat, frustrating threading on old upholstery and compacted dust in impossible grooves. 

Despite that, he's still fascinated by Alfred's car workshop. It's full of parts and rags and oils and fluids and tools that Bruce isn't sure he could even name - he'd definitely be hard-pressed for a few of them, at least. And in the back corner is a colourfully stained tarp with paint buckets and airbrushes around it. That station always was Bruce's favourite, even when he was causing absolute misery by leaving stains on the concrete floor outside the designated paint area. He wonders if it ever annoyed Alfred, but he looks at the growing paint handprints stamped onto the wall beside the tarp and knows that Alfred would never have chided him for a little paint. There's still a couple purple pawprints underneath the handprints from Shelley. 

Alfred works diligently on a car part Bruce can't name, cleaning the tiny gears with oil and a very dedicated Q-tip. Bruce sits quietly on a stool beside the work table, running his fingers over a smooth plate of metal that Alfred cut earlier. He's making a tiny chassis for a remote-controlled car for one of Rosie's grandkid's birthday next week - even Bruce has been invited for that. He's down here to help, at Alfred's request, but he's starting to suspect that Alfred has ulterior motives. Conversation has steered clear of any Enterprises, Jim, or Batman topics, and Bruce...well, Bruce appreciates it. He likes just spending time with Alfred. And occasionally helping with shaping a tiny wheel hub. 

And it gives Bruce something to do other than worry about Jim. He hasn't seen him since he went out as Batman last month - a move he doesn't plan to do again, as much as he wants to. But he can't risk being spotted; Batman's been silent for _months_ , and everyone has generally accepted that he's stopped...well, being Batman. There's barely any talk of it anymore, and what little there is focuses on the new vigilante in town, Stormcloud. (Tiffany chose the name. Bruce thinks it suits her.) 

"Can I turn this on?" Bruce asks, gesturing to the small TV bolted to the wall above the table. 

"Of course," Alfred says. "I usually have it on, myself." 

Bruce leans up to grab the magnetic remote off the side of the small TV and turn it on for some background noise. He doesn't check the channel, too focused on the part that Alfred hands him. 

"What colour?" Bruce asks. Alfred hums thoughtfully. 

"The royal blue," he says, pointing to one of the paint pens scattered in front of Bruce. "Just along the lines here."

"I'll do my best." Bruce uncaps the pen and sets the piece down on the table, hunching over to mark a careful line down an impression in the metal. 

"...just goes to show that the GCPD won't back down without a fight. They successfully refuted all of Mr. Crowne's latest claims in court today, but public opinion continues to sway." 

Bruce looks up at the TV. He hadn't realised it was on a news channel. 

"As always, we will be publishing full trial details upon public release," Clark continues. "The main claims for today's trial were..." 

Bruce spots Jim walking into the courthouse in the back of the shot that pans beside Clark's head. He looks...as normal as a fifty pixel person can. 

"You should invite him over again," Alfred says. "He hasn't visited in a while." 

"Who, Clark?" 

"Yes. I like him." 

Bruce laughs. He's well aware of Alfred's fondness for Clark - he used to bake _cookies_ for the man whenever he visited. Something about Clark's farmboy charm and manners just wins over anybody he meets. 

"I...guess I could," he allows, because he playfully hates Clark but he loves Alfred. "I haven't exactly told Tiffany or Robin about the League yet." 

"They could take your place in your communications," Alfred says calmly. 

"That's what I'm afraid of," Bruce admits. He inks in more of the blue line. "I don't want them to...become too wrapped up in this." 

Alfred hums. He sets down his pliers and watches Bruce carefully. 

"I don't seem to recall you having that same sort of consideration," he says. Bruce laughs. 

"I mean, Clark reached out to _me_ , how would I say no?" Then he sighs. "I know I should tell Tiffany, I just...I don't know." 

"There's no hurry, Bruce," Alfred says, reassuring as always. "I understand your dilemma." 

Bruce has been having the silent debate for months. The League was never really a _big_ thing - it's mostly a group chat that Clark started after he met Diana, and slowly, over the last four years it's been active, they'd found more people with superpowers, and added them. It's a small group, only six people, and they haven't even all met in-person. Theoretically, it's in case they ever need help, or superpowered backup if anything insane pops up, but Bruce has never had to call on them. He's helped out a handful of times in Metropolis or Coast City, but Gotham's never needed anything more than himself and the GCPD. 

If he's honest, he's not really sure why he's in the group. He doesn't _have_ superpowers; is the only one who doesn't, out of the six. But he was the second one Clark contacted, so he assumes he must have made enough of an impact for Clark to include him. They group chat is named _Justice League_ , ridiculously enough - a dig at Bruce's justice-driven motivation, since he has no powers, and then League tacked on because they're a group. Allies. _Friends_. 

"Not yet," he says eventually. "I want - things to calm down first." 

"Have you told the League of your replacements?" 

Bruce winces. He left the official mission group chat, but he's still in the informal, jokey group chat - started by the two youngest members. 

"No," he admits. Alfred gives him a withering look. 

"They probably know," Bruce says, holding his hands up. "Clark's a _reporter_. He's probably seen them around." But Alfred's stare gets to him. "Okay, I'll - I'll tell them. Later. Once this has all blown over." 

Alfred smiles. "Good. And please invite Clark over for dinner again." 

Bruce playfully rolls his eyes but makes a mental note to do so. He sets his metal part aside to dry and Alfred hands him the next piece. 

"Gold, under the rim here," he instructs. Bruce picks up the appropriate pen and nods. 

They work in silence for a bit after that, the news chattering on low volume above their heads. Between painting, Bruce looks around the workshop. It's tidy, homey, and even though it's mostly tools and bits and bobs, it's decidedly _Alfred's_. Alfred may have moved out of the manor, but Bruce couldn't imagine taking this space back - it feels sacred, almost more so than his father's office, when he worked from home. The difference between Alfred and his father, though, is that Alfred always invited him in. Always made space for him. 

When he was younger, Alfred used the workshop for small DIY projects, from mini models to playful restoration of Bruce's favourite toys. And when Bruce got older, and found out that Alfred had a passion for fixing up cars, he had personally helped him locate and buy some from scrapyards, had gone with him to find junkyard parts and rusted licence plates. 

At the time, Bruce hadn't understood how personal the workshop was for Alfred, but looking around now, he can see all the little fond, domestic touches that transform it from four walls into a _space_. Paint-stained walls that haven't been repainted, handprints and paw prints trailing over to their table even now, Bruce's old military men lined up on a shelf. Some framed photos on a small desk in the other corner, away from the paint. Photos of teenage Bruce with Alfred, a photo of Shelley covered in bright red paint. There's still some dots of it on the ceiling, all these years later, where she tried to shake it off. And, hung on the wall above the desk with nails, a string of more photos. Wallet-sized, small photos - but they're all of memories. There's ones of Bruce at different ages, laughing with grass-stained limbs, frowning dramatically in an ugly graduation gown, captured moments that Bruce hardly remembers personally but that Alfred keeps up in here. And beside that, newer photos of Rosie, grinning with her family. A rare photo of her and Alfred, their hair white in the sunlight. Happy. They're _happy_ photos, on that string. Moments of the happy parts of childhood, of the happy parts of adulthood. Of Bruce just being a kid. Of Alfred just being a father. 

Bruce thinks back to Jim on the balcony. Thinks of Alfred's photos. Thinks of Wayne Enterprises, of Batman, of Jim - all new starts that he hadn't expected after Crime Alley, but had embraced. 

He wonders if there's another new start for him. 

"Do you think I'd be a good father?" He asks, breaking the comfortable silence between them. Alfred gently sets down a tiny metal door. 

"I think that depends," Alfred says carefully. He picks up another metal square to begin shaping. "Do you want to be a father?" 

Bruce looks up at Alfred, his own father. He admires him. Appreciates him. _Loves_ him. He took him in like it was never a problem, like of _course_ he'd raise a child on a whim. And he's done it so flawlessly, too, no matter how much he claims otherwise. He was a great dad. _Is_ a great dad. Bruce wants to carry that on. 

"Yes," he says softly, and it feels _right_. 

"Then yes," Alfred replies. "I think you'd make a fantastic father, Bruce." 

Bruce picks up the tiny metal door. "Really?" 

"I've never been more sure of anything in my life." Alfred looks at him. "I think any child you should raise would be grateful to have you and Jim as their parents." 

Bruce can't help his instinctual little smile at the mention of Jim. Him and Jim. A _family_. 

"Thank you," he says. "It means a lot, Alfred." He chuckles. "I did have a great example, after all." 

"Flatterer," Alfred teases. Then smiles gently. "But of course, Bruce." 

A beat passes. Bruce picks up the royal blue pen again to colour in the door. 

"Do you know what sort of...process you would want?" Alfred asks. "For getting a child in the first place?" 

Bruce laughs quietly with him. But he already knows his answer. 

"I want to adopt," he says confidently. Alfred nods. "But probably someone...older." 

Alfred gives him a knowing look. Bruce ducks his head. 

"I just want to give them a support system," he protests. "You know as well as I do that the foster system is crushing. I want to help someone, if I can." He pauses. "Or a few someones." 

Alfred grins. "Sounds like Jim is about to have a lot on his hands." 

"Jim's already given me his blessing," Bruce says. 

"I know," Alfred says calmly. "He asked me if I knew how you felt about families." 

"You know, one day I'll surprise you with something." 

"I'm sure you will, Bruce." 

\-- 

Another week, another covert coffee break conversation in Jim's office with an intimidatingly thick file between them. 

"That's all above board?" Jim asks, nodding to the receipts Renee has been talking through for the past ten minutes. Crowne does a _lot_ of money transferring. 

"Yes," Renee answers. "I've only looked into the public business finance and his estate records." She picks up a piece of pink copy paper. " _But_ I have found some interesting gaps." 

Jim sets down his mug to lean forward and scrutinise the receipts Renee pushes towards him. They're all business expenses, from wages to running costs to stock, but as Renee's pointed out with red circles, there are some worrying holes marked off as anonymous 'business expenses'. But they're not for dinners or events - those are bookmarked at the bottom of the page, with named companies and caterers. 

"He's siphoning off a lot of money," Jim notes. Studies the paper again. "But slowly." 

"He only takes a few thousand at a time," Renee agrees. "Not enough to be suspicious. Except that these pages detail every single business expense made under his authority, and he even keeps records of the _napkin_ company. He's a very organised man." 

"And he's gotten sloppy," Jim agrees. Renee nods. 

"It might be nothing," she says. "And I can't find any corresponding costs in any other public records, so I don't know where the money's _going_." 

There's something familiar about this, but Jim can't quite put his finger on it. Embezzling from your own company, but no noticeable outgoing payment. So either he's paying for something, or - 

_Dent_. That's it. Cross-contamination of public - or in this case, private _business_ \- funds, and personal funds. The militia, the new shipments to SWAT that Dent ordered - Crowne's holes all reek of the same mistake that Dent made in his finance records, when the GCPD looked back over them to close the case. 

"He might be paying himself back," Jim says, looking up at Renee. "He's paid for something - or paid _someone_ \- using his personal money, and he's just filling in the hole." Anyone with a bit more sense might just wait for their business to naturally fill in the hole in their bank account with profit - but the rich aren't known for being patient. Either that, or it must have been a substantial hit to his account. And the only things that would cost enough to dent a millionaire's account are usually illegal. 

Jim would bet his non-embezzled money on both. 

"I can't access his personal funds," Renee says, turning the papers back to look at them. "Not _yet_. But if I can add up all the gaps and find how much it is - " 

"And if we can find a link to the outgoing, or at least a good guess - " 

"Then we can open an investigation into him." 

Jim holds up his mug to clink it against Renee's. 

"When can you get me a number?" He asks, checking the clock. He has another court appearance tomorrow over the quality of the Bane case. Headlines are already preparing to rip him apart. 

"Swing by my office tomorrow night," Renee replies with a grin. Jim chuckles into his coffee. 

"I'll bring the coffee," he says. 

\-- 

The next time Bruce ventures down to the Batcave, he finds Tiffany and Robin sparring on a blue gym mat in the centre platform. Unexpected for - he checks his watch - ten in the morning, but hey, he used to work out at six a.m., so who is he to comment? 

He sets down the tray of brunch he brought down on the worktop table that's been shoved down the walkway, out of the way, and sits down on one of the stools gathered by it to watch. Tiffany's holding up boxing pads for Robin to hit, bouncing on her toes to easily dodge him and circle around to a new position - Robin twists smoothly and lands a solid punch on one of them, his knuckles wrapped in bandage to help cushion the blow. They're in easy athletic gear, nothing simulating the suits they'll actually be wearing, but it's still impressive to watch them weave around each other, Robin aiming for the pads while trying to dodge Tiffany's counters. 

As Bruce watches, Tiffany kicks it up a notch, spinning to try and punch _back_ \- Robin ducks and swings towards her legs, but she jumps over his arm. Bruce notes with a degree of surprise that neither of them are pulling their punches. But neither are aiming for above the shoulders or below the belt, so he can relax a little. It's fascinating, watching them train. 

Tiffany fights like she's light as a feather, practically floating from point to point and making strategic, jabbing punches instead of relying on brute force like Bruce did. She uses her momentum to propel her hits, rolls off of Robin's shoulder to thwack him in the back with her arm - he pushes her away and she uses that to easily bounce away and forward again, back and forward, circling him like a vulture, diving in to attack when he exposes a side. 

Robin's fighting style is...like nothing Bruce has seen before. He's holding his own against Tiffany, blocking most of her hits and replying with his own elbows and punches - he doesn't telegraph his moves, which speaks to his previous experience, and he's seemingly hard to topple, totally in control of his weight and movement, like Tiffany. His hits are an odd combination of arms and legs, punching a pad and then spinning right around to kick out at Tiffany's ankles - she dodges, and swoops back in to crowd him up, a fast series of punches that he blocks with crossed arms but that _does_ back him up to the railing. Bruce leans eagerly forward in his seat, because Tiffany shows no signs of stopping - probably testing Robin, he thinks, seeing how he'll get his way out of _this_ one. 

If it were Bruce, he'd probably shove Tiffany's arms away from him and use the split second opening to get a hit on her abdomen, winding her and pushing her away in one move. Tiffany, he thinks, would either kick up a storm or use a stun gadget. Both good options, but Robin doesn't have gadgets on him now. So he's really only got two choices here, either disabling Tiffany or pushing her away enough to get an opening. 

To his surprise, Robin makes a third option. He side-swipes Tiffany's fists with a sweep of his arm and instead of going for a punch or defence again, he grips the railing behind him and kicks off the ground to bring his legs up and kick _Tiffany_ square in the chest - she stumbles back halfway across the mat with an audible _oof_ but doesn't fall, fumbling to regain her balance for a moment before she squares her fists up again. Then he braces his legs on the railing and _pushes off_ , and Bruce watches in awe as he flips forward, catching himself on his hands to springboard and land on his feet in front of Tiffany, and the momentum of the movement means that he punches down hard enough to bruise any enemy - as it is, he uses a flat hand to push on Tiffany's sternum instead and it sends her to the floor, where she stays, defeated. 

"Okay, you win that one," she pants, and tugs off a boxing pad. Robin offers a hand to help her up, grinning when she's standing again. 

"Only took me what, four days?" He says, picking up the pad and taking the second one that Tiffany hands him. They start walking over to Bruce. 

"Four days and a secret fucking weapon," Tiffany replies, running a hand through her hair. "Where the hell did you learn _that_?" 

"Hey Bruce," Robin says as they sit down with him, tugging his tank top away from his chest to try and cool down. "And hey, I said I did gymnastics in college." 

"That was...impressive," Bruce says, only _slightly_ dumbstruck. He pushes the tray towards them. "So I take it training's going well?" 

"So far," Tiffany answers. "Apparently you hired a ninja." 

"It was _one_ flip." 

"That's one more than I can do," Bruce says. "That was a good move, Robin. Although somehow I don't think they teach _fighting_ in gymnastics." He raises an eyebrow. 

"So I improvised." Robin shrugs. "Tiffany's been kicking my ass up and down the Batcave. I had to do _something_." 

"Your mistake," Tiffany adds. "Now I know what you can do, it's all over for you - holy shit, Bruce, are these fajitas?" 

"Yes," he says sheepishly. "I'm practising for Jim." 

"They look _good_." Robin reaches over to grab his cutlery, nodding at Bruce. "Thanks, Bruce." Tiffany echoes the sentiment. 

"Least I can do." Bruce sits back to let them eat for a few minutes, pulling out his phone to check notifications. 

The headlines are at least moving away from the lawsuit a little - the Herald is talking about new city ordnances today, and Nightly is covering some entertainment news for its front page. 

"I'm sure you didn't just come down here for lunch, Bruce," Tiffany says, breaking the silence. "These _are_ really good, though." 

"I came to check on you two," Bruce says, looking up from his phone. "See how you're getting along." 

"I have no dignity left," Robin deadpans. Bruce and Tiffany crack up. 

"That's just a side effect of moonlighting as a vigilante." 

"Is it moonlighting if this is my only job?" 

They fall back into their playful bickering and Bruce continues checking his work email, typing out fast replies to needless requests for approval of various ordinary things - stationery, construction wages, and sponsor reimbursements among them. The GCPD has forwarded on a polite invoice for light security coverage at the latest press conference, which Bruce forwards to Iman to pay. She handles the finance details ow, slowly taking more and more financial responsibility off of Bruce's plate and reorganising it to suit her new finance system. Bruce doesn't miss that part of the job - and now, it frees him up to work more with the designers and engineers, which is always the part he's enjoyed the most. It's where he picked up a lot of his skills for the Batman tech, and, most importantly, it's where he met Lucius for the first time, all those years ago when he was still the oddly young CEO with no notches on his belt. Well, notches that they _knew_ about anyway. 

"Yeah, and he's a piece of shit," Robin says - Bruce's ears prick up at the edge in his tone, but he doesn't look up from his phone. "He's _still_ texting me about fucking _paint damage_ that _I didn't do_." 

"You _could_ always sue him," Tiffany suggests. "Or move out." 

Robin chuckles. 

"Oh, sure, because I can afford a lawsuit," he says dryly. His fork scrapes against the plate. "And with the student loans, I can't _afford_ another place in the city. Not if I want to eat." 

Bruce frowns. He's heard Robin complain about his apartment before, a tiny little space in a rickety building with an overbearing landlord that seems hellbent on chasing him up for money for every single little repair he can even _think_ to do. And Bruce does pay them generously, but he hadn't even considered the fact that Robin would have _debt_ hanging over his head like the sword of Damocles. He feels awkward, thinking about it - or, really, the fact that he _didn't_ think of it. He never had to worry about student debt, never had to consider choosing between rent or food, never had to deal with the surely crushing weight of economic demand on a personal level. 

" - figure it out," Robin continues with a shrug. Bruce missed the entire last half of that conversation. 

"West side's better than east," Tiffany replies. "Although it's more expensive." 

"I'll see what I can scrape together." Twin sets of cutlery clatter on empty plates. "It'll probably take me months to save up just for the deposit, so I'm not going anywhere soon." 

Tiffany hums in agreement, and Bruce pockets his phone when the conversation seems to end there. 

"So, what's the plan for today?" He asks, leaning his elbows on the table. 

"No idea," Robin replies with a grin. They both turn to Tiffany. 

"Hey, why am _I_ in charge?" She asks, crossing her arms. "This is Bruce's operation." 

"I'm retired." 

"Oh, yeah, _retired_. That's why you keep comin' down here." 

"I like to keep an eye on things." 

Tiffany chuckles quietly, a smile on her face. 

"Whatever you say, Bruce," she teases, and sits up in the chair. "We're working on Robin's gadgets today. And I need to recalibrate my jetpack." 

"You got any ideas yet?" Bruce asks Robin. 

"A few," he admits. "You've got a lot of toys down here to choose from." 

"I can integrate most of them into your suit," Tiffany adds. "But we'll experiment with the handheld versions today." 

"Did you finalise a suit?" Bruce asks, and Tiffany and Robin share a knowing look. They grin. 

"We've decided it'll be a surprise for you," Tiffany says evenly. 

Bruce laughs. "Keeping secrets from me, now?" 

"You're retired," Robin says, leaning back in his chair. Bruce nods. He can't argue against that - but he is _very_ curious now what Robin's chosen to do. He wonders if it'll match Tiffany's, or if he'll have gone for an independent design. 

"I can wait," he replies. He definitely cannot wait. 

"You can _inspect_ it when we're done," Tiffany says, smiling fondly. 

She reminds him of Lucius so much in that moment - teasing, knowing, friendly, _genuine_. Trustworthy. And normally, Bruce _would_ feel the urge to look over any potential new suits, just like he did with all the ones that Lucius made him. Not out of a lack of trust, because there was none of that, but out of...he guesses the clinical term is _paranoia_. Kind of came with the job. And he liked to know how it all fit together, liked to be able to pinpoint where the lining hardened into armour panels, where the gadgets cases clipped together with tiny, unseen latches. Liked to know all the details. 

But now...now there's no urge. It's an odd, empty feeling, when he realises he's reaching for that familiar paranoia but scraping the bottom of an empty barrel instead. He likes to come down to check on the pair, and he likes to keeps tabs on general happenings, but he doesn't feel the all-consuming pull to pay attention to the details anymore. Not when he's got such a trustworthy team sitting in front of him. 

"I won't," he says, holding up his hands. "I trust you two." 

Tiffany gives him a meaningful look. 

"Are you sure?" 

"I'm retired, remember?" Bruce says, and it finally, _finally_ feels true. 

\-- 

"I oughta fuckin' retire after this," Jim says. He sucks hard on his cigarette and blows it out the window. "He's embezzled nearly half a fuckin' million. From _himself_." 

"And he has the balls to sue us," Renee agrees, tapping her pen against her lips. They both stare at the six digits written in incriminating red on the Post-It in front of her. Something about the numbers is familiar, but Jim can't place _what_. 

"Gambling?" Jim suggests, but neither of them believe it. Crowne isn't the gambling sort - not that any casinos know of, anyway. Renee's been placing some calls around those sorts of places, but nothing even vaguely legal turned up. 

"He could have split it," Renee allows. "Maybe this isn't _one_ sum we're looking at." 

And they'd be shit out of luck if that was the case. Jim frowns and tips ash out the window. 

"Unless - " Renee sits up, something flitting across her face. "Jim, who worked on the financial side of Joker's arms deal?" 

"Harrison," Jim asks, and doesn't have a chance to say anything else before Renee's snatching up the Post-It and standing up from the chair. She's like a whirlwind, gathering folders and grabbing her jacket and urging Jim to follow her out the door. He barely manages to stub out his cigarette before he's crashing after her down the hallway, down the stairs, his cane thudding rapid-fire against carpet to keep up. 

Renee knocks politely on Harrison's door before letting herself in, Jim on her heels. 

"Dave," she says, standing opposite his desk. Harrison looks bewildered. "Your work on the Joker and Harley case; do you have a copy down here?" 

"I - yeah, of course," he says, looking between her and Jim. He starts reaching down for the filing cabinet built into his desk. "Is this for court?" 

"No," Jim replies. 

"How much did you estimate Joker and Harley would have to spend to get those weapons?" Renee asks. Harrison pauses in grabbing his file, one hand plunged into the drawer. 

"Uh, nearly half a million," he says. "Exact number is - " 

Renee slams down the Post-It on his desk. "Is it this?" 

Harrison peers at it. And _nods_. 

"Yeah," he says. "That's it." 

"How accurate?" Jim asks. Harrison glances up at him. 

"There's an error margin of a few hundred each way." he replies. "I based it on the known arms dealers in Gotham and Metropolis, after you found that graffiti. Prices obviously vary, but there's only so much a dealer can take off of a sale before they're not making profit." 

Jim nods. 

"Jim, open an investigation," Renee says. "I think we have enough." 

"What's this all about?" Harrison asks, setting the file on the desk. Jim grins. 

"We're about to sue Crowne right _back_ ," he says. 


	12. Seventh Month: Part 3

The investigation blows the lawsuit out of the fucking water. It takes one warrant and two subpoenas to ransack Crowne's personal finance records and his home office and crack it all wide open. Jim knew there'd be a fault somewhere, knew he'd slip up - a man meticulous enough to do his own accounting is bound to keep records that he _shouldn't_ , and there, in Crowne's bedroom safe, is paperwork for an arms deal. 

"You can't prove anything!" Crowne spits, lunging forward at Jim but held back by two officers. His handcuffs jangle behind his back. 

_Wrong answer_. At least if he'd tried to claim he was framed, he might have a leg to stand on, but he's been read his rights and anything he says _will_ be used in a court of law now. He's clever, but not clever enough. 

"You're diggin' yourself quite a hole there," Jim says, peering at the paperwork in the evidence bag. Behind him, other officers are clearing out the safe and desk. Crowne is all but frothing at the mouth. 

"You're _dirty_. All of you. And I'll prove it - " 

"We have our evidence." 

"You got it _illegally_ ," Crowne bites out, a cruel smirk on his face. "I'll run you into the _ground_ , Gordon." 

"Your lawyers will find that we did it all by the book," Jim says. He flashes Crowne a nasty smile. "Just like we _always_ do." 

Crowne _growls_ in frustration. Jim nods to the officers restraining him. 

"You won't win this time, Gordon!" Crowne roars. Jim chuckles and sets down the bag. 

"Oh, I think I will," he says calmly. "Take him back to the precinct, officers." 

With Crowne aside, it's just red tape and paperwork to cut through. They file the arrest and the charges - which, conveniently, helps fill in the missing piece of their Joker and Harley case now, bringing that a step closer to completion - organise the official papers to present to the judge. He calls a mistrial immediately. 

The GCPD is innocent. Free. Clear. It almost feels like a relief. 

Almost. 

But when Jim checks the news the next day, public opinion is still at an all-time low. Crowne's lawsuit did exactly what he wanted - sowed doubt in the public mind, let it spread and fester until it sunk the GCPD's reputation through the floor. Kept them busy to hide his own crimes. Blowing smoke so they would hurriedly close the Pact cases, hopefully miss a few details - like his involvement - and declare it shut and finished and he would have gotten away with helping Joker and Harley destroy half the city. 

They haven't pinned a motive on him yet, but there's a couple strong working theories they'll put to the test - the most promising one is how much stock Crowne has tied up in medicine and pharmaceuticals. And of course, if he helps fund an attack, people will need _treatment_. No matter that the hospital was all but totalled - Crowne relied on generous public figures like Bruce Wayne to fill in those gaps for him, to donate rather than _invest_. It sends a chill through Jim to think of it like that, to think of Crowne _investing_ in hurting the city just to make some extra money. 

Jim calls legal. Julie picks up. 

"What's up, Jim?" 

"About the lawsuit," Jim starts, leans back in his chair. "Can we still continue with the proceedings?" 

"It was declared a mistrial," Julie replies. "We're not under suspicion anymore." 

"Maybe not from the courts, but we are from the public." Jim glances at the picture of Bruce and him on his desk. He could drive over after work _today_ and see him again. See him for the first time in months. No case between them. No nosy press. 

Jim looks away from the picture. 

"I want to finish the trial," he says. "I want to show the public our evidence. Clear our name." 

Julie stays silent for a long moment. But not long enough for Jim to regret it. 

"I like that," she says. "I'll get in touch with the courts." 

\-- 

It's a rainy day when Bruce asks Robin to meet him in one of the parlour rooms downstairs. He's watching the rain soak the hydrangeas outside when the door opens behind him, familiar footsteps walking up to stop beside him. Familiar red dots of shoes appear in the corner of his periphery. 

"Is this a meeting?" Robin asks. He looks around nervously. "Am...I in trouble?" 

"No, no, you - " Bruce chuckles, turning to look at Robin. "You're not in trouble, Robin. I just wanted to talk to you. Privately." 

"Okay," Robin says, wary. "What about?" 

"Take a seat," Bruce offers, gesturing to the twin chairs beside the window. Robin runs a hand through his hair and stares oddly at Bruce while they sit down. Bruce leans forward in his seat. 

"I don't...want this to make anything awkward, between us," he starts, meeting Robin's eyes. "But I have a couple questions for you." 

"What's this about?" Robin asks, eyebrows furrowed. 

Bruce sighs. He feels _awkward_ , but he can't in good conscience _not_ try and do something - 

"When you were talking about your student loans," he says. "I...hadn't realised how much that would put you out each month, so I want to offer to pay them back for you. No strings attached. Consider it a...Christmas bonus, or something." 

"No," Robin says. Strangely, he laughs a little. "I can't - I can't take your money, Bruce. So thanks, but no. I'll be fine."

Bruce thinks for a second. He _does_ have another idea, but he doesn't want to overstep. He knows Robin won't accept if it's just a straight-up offer. If it's free in any way. He looks carefully out the window. 

"The manor...is very empty right now," he starts, and sees Robin already starting to shake his head. 

"I'm going to ask Jim to move in with me," Bruce continues, "but the manor was built for a lot more people. There's no way we could use all the space." 

"Bruce - " 

"What if I rented out a room to you?" 

Robin goes silent at the question. He looks out of the window with him. 

"You want - You want me to move _here_?" He asks, but he doesn't sound upset. Or offended, or angry - or really any of things that Bruce _expected_ from him. "What about Jim?" 

"I'll ask him," Bruce replies calmly. "But I already know he'll be fine with it. And like I said, the manor's empty. It'll go mostly unused. Which is why I'm happy to rent part of it out to you. It doesn't have to be a room. There's still a little servant's lodge behind the manor, and I'm also happy to renovate it for you." 

Robin crosses his arms. 

"How much?" He asks. 

Bruce quotes him a completely lowball price, for this area. 

"I know you're lying," Robin says, but Bruce can see him smiling out of the corner of his eye. 

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean." 

Robin glances up at him. 

"Make it fair," he says, "and I'll think about it." 

Bruce nods. "Okay. I'll match inner-city rent." 

He glances at Robin. 

"But take all the time you want," he assures him. He wasn't expecting a yes or no today, after all. He's not expecting a final answer for a while. "The offer's always there. Of either the room _or_ the lodge." 

\-- 

Bruce is unused to seeing a living room so... _busy_. Especially this one. It's one of the lounges on the ground floor, the only one with a TV set, usually reserved for guests or unsatisfying dates - Bruce has a much cosier living room upstairs next to his bedroom, for anything more private. But this room is bigger, and better suited for the veritable deluge of snack packets and drinks Robin and Tiffany have crowded underneath the coffee table.

But now, the previously stuffy room is filled with laughter and talk from the occupants; Alfred on the armchair, Robin, Tiffany, and Bruce on the large sofa beside it. Somehow, it reminds Bruce of a memory he never had, of bustling friends and family gatherings - he catches Alfred's eyes across the room and shares his private, pleased smile. 

Bruce likes filling in the empty manor. Makes it happier with an innocence he hasn't felt since his teenage years, since Alfred and homemade jam, since Shelley and red paint. 

Robin and Tiffany are talking about something on their phone screens while they all wait for the news channel to switch to the live footage of the GCPD trial - the _last_ GCPD trial, by special request of the Commissioner, to finish the case. A bold move, but one that will hopefully pay off. Tensions have been high in Gotham for the past week, ever since Crowne's arrest and the subsequent mistrial declaration. Opinion blogs comment on the convenience of his guilt, editorials pick apart what they've seen of the GCPD case _so far_ , and fill in their own endings, newspapers bring up a whole new swathe of unanswered questions. 

"...and today, we're here to answer them," Lois says on-screen, looking determinedly at the camera. The room abruptly quiets down to pay attention. 

"This is the Daily Planet, bringing you live coverage of the very unusual, but final trial in the Crowne vs. GCPD case," she finishes, and steps back so the camera can zoom in on the GCPD troop heading up the courthouse stairs, Jim, Renee, and their lawyers flanked by the court sheriffs. 

While the court organises getting the press in, Lois gives a quick recap of the case and circumstances so far - something all of them have heard five times over by now, blasted on the radio, on the news, on the TV every single night. The channel cuts to statistics and graphics while the press shuffle into the courthouse, a smooth, familiar voice deciphering the numbers on screen for the audience. 

And when the channel tunes back in, it's footage of the court while everyone sets up. Bruce edges forward in anticipation, watching eagle-eyed for any hint of anything he can get - he notices Jim talking with Renee and a lawyer in hushed tones, but they don't look as harried as they did the last time there was live footage. They have stacks of folders on the desk in front of them. 

"I say it takes four hours," Robin says, placing a bill between him and Tiffany on the sofa. 

"I say five," she says. "They have to recap all their previous cases." 

"Put me down for four and a half," Alfred adds, leaning over to pass a bill across Bruce. Bruce blinks. 

"Are you taking bets on how _long_ this is going to take?" 

"Yeah, you want in?" Robin answers, gesturing to the small pile of money next to him. "Starting bet's five dollars." 

Bruce chuckles and pulls out his wallet. "I'll match Tiffany's." 

Tiffany high-fives him. 

"I thought you didn't play favourites," Robin teases. 

"I don't," Bruce replies evenly, his mouth twitching with the urge to smile. "I just trust Tiffany." 

"And I'm, what, chopped liver?" 

Despite their new round of playful bickering, when the trial finally starts, they settle in silence - Robin and Tiffany tear open a popcorn bag to share, to Bruce's amusement. Alfred silently grabs one of the bags of chocolate mints. Bruce, eventually, relents and leans forward for one of the soda cans. 

They're not exactly _wrong_ to bring snacks, this _is_ going to be a long trial. 

\-- 

"Not guilty!" 

The living room explodes in cheering. Robin and Tiffany _whoop_ loud enough to hurt Bruce's ears, but he's too happy to care, grinning ear-to-ear. Alfred laughs warmly beside them, relaxing back into the armchair. 

"I knew they could do it," he says. 

" _Hell_ yeah they could," Tiffany replies, and whoops again. "That'll show 'em!" 

"Alfred, the winnings are all yours," Robin says, leaning across Bruce to hand him the bills. "Four and a half hours." 

"Thank you, Robin," Alfred says, and accepts his winnings graciously. "Glad to see I've still _got it_ , as your sort say these days." 

Tiffany tosses her head back with a laugh. Bruce turns back to the TV while Daily Planet film the GCPD's triumph. 

On screen, the Daily Planet camera stays focused on the Jim, Renee, and lawyer group, all trading celebratory handshakes and high-fives, huge smiles on their faces. As Bruce watches, Jim pulls out his phone. 

Bruce's phone buzzes a second later. He flushes slightly. Is that - 

_I think I was promised dinner after this was all over?_

Bruce laughs. Robin, Tiffany, and Alfred all pause their bickering to shoot him a knowing look. He ignores their smug faces. 

_> offer's still on the table _

_> how about tonight? _

_sounds perfect_

\-- 

Jim doesn't dress up for this dinner. He packs an overnight bag and a belated box of chocolates and walks out to his car - 

and stops when he sees the red car parallel parked in front of his driveway. 

Bruce pops open the passenger door from inside, flashing Jim a warm, welcome, _familiar_ smile. Jim goes weak in the knees. 

"Thought you might want a ride," Bruce says when Jim sits down. 

"It's a plus," Jim allows, and leans over the gearbox to drag Bruce into a long, _long_ kiss. Bruce tilts his head and sighs happily against his mouth, hands coming up to cradle Jim's jaw, to hold his hand. Bruce fumbles for a button and the door closes automatically behind Jim, who chuckles breathlessly against Bruce's lips. 

"Oh, I definitely missed this," Jim murmurs, and hooks a finger in Bruce's stupid tie and pulls it looser, pulls him _closer_. Bruce's fingers are pleasantly warm on his neck, in his palm, rough and calloused and fitted perfectly to Jim. 

They stay there for a few long, indulgent minutes. 

Neither wants to pull away, but they have to eventually. Jim picks his duffle up off his feet and shoves it into the backseat, rolls his cane around to lean against the passenger side door. Bruce tugs him in for another fleeting kiss. 

"I love you," he murmurs into it, presses it into Jim's lips. 

"I love you, too," Jim replies, kisses Bruce's lips, his cheek, lifts his hand to kiss his wrist. Bruce looks at him with something like adoration. 

"It's good to see you again," Bruce says, lips lifting in a lopsided smile. 

"Yeah, you, too, Bruce," Jim says, plays it gruff but can't help smiling back, doesn't think he can _stop_ , not with how happy he is to finally see Bruce again. 

"Now how about you take us back?" He adds, takes Bruce's hand to kiss his knuckles. Bruce blushes charmingly. "I'll tell you about the case on the way?" 

"Sounds like a plan," Bruce agrees, withdraws his hand to start the engine. 

Jim can hardly stop glancing Bruce's way on the drive back. He fills him in on what's left of the case. 

"That's the last bit, isn't it?" Bruce asks about Crowne's confession, pulled out of him with a couple bargains earlier in the week. 

"Yep," Jim says, stretching his legs out in the footwell. "He supplied Joker and Harley with weapons and let them crash at one of his properties. So that fills in the three week gap we had for them." He grins. "Finally closed that fuckin' case this morning." 

It had felt like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders, when he had stamped it shut and filed it beside Bane and Mr. Freeze in the cabinet. Felt _good_. Felt like he could finally move on past this case and put the past behind him. 

And, oddly enough, like he could finally move past the last remnants of Batman. Not that he wants to leave him in the past, per se, but...Jim looks over at Bruce, at the man under the cowl, and god, he _loves_ him. Being with him again is like puzzle pieces fitting together, like they were never apart in the first place. 

He's happy to leave Batman in the past if it means he can continue forward with Bruce. 

"I love you," he says again, just to say it. Bruce glances at him with a soft, private smile on his face. 

"And I love _you_ ," he replies, just as he pulls up to the gates of Wayne Manor, waiting for them to open. "Welcome back, Jim." 

\-- 

When they get inside, Bruce all but pushes Jim onto the platform lift and tells him to make himself at home upstairs while he cooks, with very strict instructions to _not_ try and come down to help him. Jim's reluctant to leave Bruce's side, but does with a laugh and a kiss to step on the lift and let it take him upstairs to Bruce's room. 

The manor looks exactly like Jim left it. A few changes, here and there, where furniture has been polished, where carpet has been relaid, new paint on the corner of Bruce's bedroom door but the knob is still squeaky when Jim turns the handle and walks inside. Everything in the room is so _Bruce_. A sensible wardrobe and matching dresser, a huge bed with a charming set of blue and white sheets on it. 

It's all so familiar that Jim doesn't even take a second glance at the furniture before he puts his duffle on the end of the bed. He's brought enough clothes and toiletries for a few days - a little surprise he hasn't told Bruce about yet, but somehow, he thinks Bruce won't mind him staying over for more than one night. Jim knows he could full well use the rest, and Renee had all but pushed him out of the precinct earlier, assuring and reassuring him that _Gotham will survive one weekend without you, so go away before I get a restraining order_. 

Jim lays his heavy jacket on the bed and takes a fresh pair of clothes out of his bag to put into the bathroom to change into after a much-needed shower. Bruce doesn't mind, but Jim would personally like to wash the precinct off of him before he settles in to a long-awaited and much-appreciated home-cooked dinner. 

He pauses halfway through the bathroom door. There's a lot more stuff in here than he remembered. _New_ stuff. Wait - _familiar_ stuff. A second cologne bottle on the shelf above the sink, shower gel and shampoo tucked into corner of the shower. All of them Jim's brands. 

A waist-high railing installed in the shower next to the corner bench. Now _that's_ new, and it looks an awful lot like the one put in Jim's house after he got out of hospital. Nancy had come over to do the DIY. 

In fact, if he had to guess, it's the same manufacturer. 

"Sneaky," he murmurs, picking up the cologne and opening the top. Unused. He sets his clothes on an empty shelf opposite the toilet, and notices a second set of towels waiting on the shelf underneath it, a different colour from the ones already hung up on the back of the door. Now that isn't as much of a surprise, that's just Bruce being polite, probably, but Jim suspects the bottles are more than just _courtesy_. 

Still, as any good detective should, he steps back out to the bedroom to see if he missed anything out there. 

It turns out ignoring the furniture was a mistake. 

"Less sneaky," he says at the second dresser bolted to the wall beside Bruce's. The drawers are empty. So unless Bruce has suddenly gotten a whole new wardrobe over the past two months, Jim has a pretty good guess of where this is going. 

Despite himself, his heart flutters in his chest. Bruce is a pretty subtle man when he wants to be, but this...this is deliberate. He wouldn't have sent Jim up if he as trying to _hide_ this, and Jim can read between the lines. It's a tentative introduction to a question Bruce will want to ask in-person. 

Jim already knows he'll say yes. He huffs out a laugh. 

Really, it's pretty fucking ironic, if you ask him, considering the twin bands of gold currently burning a hole in his duffle's side pocket. Not sized, not ready, but...a reminder. A promise. 

\-- 

Dinner is a small, private affair. Bruce has even lit _candles_ in the dining room - only a few, dotted around the windowsill and in the middle of the table. Jim sits on the same side as Bruce at the table, elbows bumping when they talk and knees nudging when they move. Bruce made _burgers_ for him, heaping with toppings and barely held together by the toothpick shoved through the middle, but it's the best meal Jim's eaten in _ages_. 

Although the company's definitely the best part. They chat about anything and everything over the food - Bruce tells him about Alfred moving out, about Tiffany and Robin's antics, and in return, Jim talks about Renee, about Julie, laughs with him over the stupid headlines that somehow made it into circulation during the course of the trial. 

"We were all rooting for you, Jim," Bruce tells him, squeezing his hand. 

"I know you were," Jim says. "Although I gotta tell you, it was a hell of a surprise when you showed up at the stand." 

"Yeah." Bruce smiles sheepishly. "Sorry I couldn't warn you." 

"I don't want to hear another apology from you about this case," Jim says sternly, setting down his burger to point at Bruce. Bruce laughs, bright and sparkling, and Jim's chest tightens at the sound. 

"Okay, okay, I promise I won't apologise anymore," Bruce relents, disentangling their fingers to continue eating. "But you did a fantastic job out there." 

"It was mostly Julie. I'm giving her and legal a _hell_ of a raise." He glances up at Bruce. "Go on then, what have you been up to?" 

"Nothing much." 

"Bruce." 

"Jim." 

Jim just raises an eyebrow. "You're one of the most restless people I know, Bruce. So, you pick up any more Halloween costume hobbies?" 

"I didn't," Bruce assures him. "I've left that to Tiffany and Robin. I actually...went back to some of my childhood interests. And the design side of Wayne Enterprises." 

"Finally. I've been waitin' for you to relax for years." 

"You're not exactly a poster boy for carefree yourself, _Commissioner_." 

"Right now, I am," Jim replies, and takes a bite out of his burger. "I arranged some time off after this case, starting - " he checks his watch, " - now." 

Bruce laughs. "That's convenient." 

"It's also real convenient that you already have a toothbrush for me," Jim points out. Bruce blushes fiercely. 

"Look - " he starts, but Jim bumps his nose against his cheek before he can finish. 

"I like it," he says softly. He's not just talking about the toothbrush. In response, Bruce kisses him, somehow much more soft and affectionate than all the other times. 

Bruce's phone dings on the table, and he checks it idly, tilting it so Jim can see the screen. 

_Back On Top: GCPD's Blockbuster Courthouse Climax_

The Herald. Jim laughs, both at the headline and with the _relief_ it brings as Bruce scrolls down a few more news notifications - _GCPD Win Trial In Stunning Show_ (Gazette) _; Crowne vs. GCPD Officially Closed_ (Nightly) _; Heavy Is The Head That Wears The Crowne: A Lawrence Crowne Exposé_ (Daily Planet) _; GCPD Rockets To The Top Of Public Polls_ (Local). All glowing. All _positive_. 

"Looks like you got them back on your side," Bruce says. 

"Maybe the governor will finally get off my ass." 

Bruce laughs at that, shoulders shaking beside Jim's. Jim takes a triumphant bite of ridiculously delicious burger. 

"Hey, that reminds me," Jim says after he swallows. "Why did you talk to Daily Planet? Why not a local paper?" 

Bruce clears his throat. "I, uh, I know they're generally sympathetic to...well, they just are a generally sympathetic paper. They don't go for soundbites, they go for the whole story." 

"I can tell when you're lying," Jim deadpans. "So what, you got a friend on the board?" 

"Not...on the board," Bruce admits. "It's...complicated." 

"You don't have to tell me anything," Jim says. "But please, for the love of god, do not tell me you used your connections for a _trial_ \- " 

"I didn't," Bruce interrupts. "I didn't ask them to. And even if I did, it's not a _Bruce_ connection, it's a...it's a _Batman_ connection." 

Jim blinks. That's a surprise and a half. 

"I thought you only worked in Gotham," he says. 

"I do," Bruce says. "Did. I had some business there years ago - look, I _promise_ I'll tell you, but - " 

Jim takes his hand, shuts him up with a squeeze. 

"You don't ever have to tell me," he says, tilts Bruce's head with two fingers to meet his eyes, show him he's _serious_. "Bruce, as long as it's all above board, I don't mind not knowing everything about Batman. Hell, I never thought I'd know _this_ much about him." 

Bruce looks at him for a long time, eyes searching Jim's, like he's grappling with something. 

"Okay," he says eventually. Nods. "Okay, Jim." 

"Thank you." Jim uses the hand on Bruce's jaw to pull him in for a kiss. Bruce smiles into it, soft and fond and wow, Jim's never been a sappy man but he's damn close to it right now, pressed up to Bruce in his kitchen and kissing him with no time limit, no pressure, no _schedule_ , for once. 

Bruce fits their fingers tightly together, and Jim thinks about the railing in the shower and the bands of gold in his duffle and he _knows_ he'd say yes to anything Bruce asked at all. 

\-- 

When Bruce rolls over in the morning, Jim's already awake. 

"Why are you up?" Bruce whispers, inching up the pillow to be more comfortable. 

"Used to it," Jim says. "My shifts start early. Why the hell are _you_ up?" 

"Justice never sleeps," Bruce rasps dramatically, pushing himself up to sit beside Jim, who laughs quietly. Bruce leans over to tug on the curtain pull, flooding the room with pale early morning sunshine, weakened by the grey clouds hanging low in the sky. Jim winces at the light, rubbing his eyes and reaching for his glasses. 

Bruce sits back to kiss Jim - and then realises Jim's still shirtless. He skims his hand over the muscle of Jim's chest, drags his thumb through the hair down to his happy trail before it disappears under the covers. Jim shivers at the touch. 

"C'mere," he grunts, placing a hand on Bruce's cheek to kiss him. 

"As much as I would like a round two, _Commissioner_ ," Bruce says when they part. "I think breakfast should be first." 

"I can wait," Jim says, raising an eyebrow. Bruce's willpower falters. He licks his lips, slow. Jim's eyes track the movement. 

Bruce tugs the covers down a little more. 

"Well, if you _insist_ ," he drawls, smiling as he presses his palm between Jim's legs. It earns him a rewarding reaction. 

They never do quite get to breakfast. 

\-- 

When Bruce goes down to the Batcave later, only Tiffany's down there. Odd. 

"Hey, Bruce," she says, waving him over with a grin. "Come check out this GPS overlay." 

"Sure," he agrees, and sits down on a stool beside her to peer down at her tablet. "What's it for?" 

"Heat signatures," Tiffany replies, and brings up the overlay. "But it's based on video feeds and time, so the user can tell how recent it is. Kind of an experimental prototype, but I wanted to see if I could go anywhere with it." 

"I like it." Bruce taps around on the map and plays with the settings. "I trust it matches with the fingerprint tech?" 

"It would, ideally, yeah. But Robin would have to code that." 

"Yeah." Bruce glances up at the Batcomputer. "Speaking of, where _is_ Robin?" 

"Right here," someone says from behind him. Bruce spins on his stool, startled, and clues into Robin just as Tiffany starts giggling beside him. Robin's leaning against the railing of the platform, ankles crossed in front of him, but it's not the sight of him that surprises Bruce, it's what he's _wearing_. 

It's a suit. A Bat-technology suit. Black armour panels latched to Kevlar lining, as standard, but no utility belt, odd. A black domino mask like Tiffany's over his eyes, and a blue V over his chest that spreads down his arms to his middle and ring fingers on each hand. Matching stripes wrap around his calves. 

"You like it?" Tiffany asks. "Lightest armour I could make that's still bulletproof. No belt, at his request, but I've made sneaky little latches that'll fit all our gadgets." 

As if to demonstrate, Robin gestures to his waist and unhooks a grappling gun from his other hip. 

"As for gadgets, well, Robin relies more on his own body for fighting," Tiffany continues, a calm voiceover to the suit presentation. Bruce can't stop smiling. "So we focused on keeping it agile and easy to move in. Any gadget he takes in he'll have to clip on beforehand." 

"No weapons?" Bruce asks, looks between them. Tiffany smirks. Robin reaches over his shoulders with both hands. 

"We went through a couple options," Tiffany says. "Batarangs, darts, you know. But he decided he liked these." 

Robin pulls two sticks out of hidden sheathes on his back and holds them up to Bruce. He deftly flips both of them. 

"Do they...do anything?" Bruce asks, reaching out to touch the one Robin offers. 

"Nope," Tiffany replies, popping the 'p'. "It's just a metal stick." 

"But it's great for catching ankles," Robin says, flashes Tiffany a shit-eating grin. Bruce hands the stick back. 

Tiffany and Robin look _extremely_ pleased with themselves, grinning ear to ear while they wait for Bruce's reaction. 

"I love it," Bruce says. He can't resist matching their pleased smiles. "It looks _amazing_ , you two." 

"Thanks," Robin replies, his gaze slipping off of Bruce to land on Tiffany. "But Tiff did most of the work." 

"It was nothing," Tiffany says, waving it off, but she's _beaming_. 

"It's fantastic, Tiffany," Bruce tells her, places a hand on her shoulder. Robin politely looks away. "I'm proud of you.' 

"Thank you." It's small, but triumphant, and Bruce squeezes her arm once before withdrawing his hand. 

"Okay, then, what's the code name?" Bruce asks, drawing Robin's attention back to them. "Stick figure? Hangman?" 

"Says _Bat_ man," Robin mutters. 

"Sorry, I couldn't hear you over the sound of my successful career," Bruce says, cupping an ear. "What was that, Stick Insect?" 

"Careful, those sticks are pretty lethal on the ankles," Tiffany murmurs. "I have to wear joint armour when I spar with him now." 

"Ankle-killer?" Bruce guesses, and ducks with a laugh when a stick shoots past his head, straight as an arrow. Impressive form. Tiffany roars with laughter. 

"First of all, they're _escrima_ sticks," Robin says, clearly fighting a smile. "And _second_ of all, it's Nightwing." 

Stormcloud and Nightwing. 

Bruce likes it. 

\-- 

It's a warm, comfortable evening the next night. The sky is streaked with pink sunset clouds, pink like the hydrangeas blooming far below them, under the balcony. If they look to the left, they can see Rosie and Alfred playing with her grandkids in the garden, happy laughter drifting up to them on sunset breezes. For once, it's warm enough to not need a jacket, and Bruce doesn't shiver when he rolls his sleeves up. Jim rests his arms on the stone railing and hums when Bruce gently nudges his shoulder. It's peaceful up here, the silence between them tranquil and calm as they take in the view. 

"So, I asked Robin if he wanted to move in," Bruce says, breaking that silence for the first time in ten minutes. Jim glances at him. 

"Into the manor?" He asks. Bruce nods. 

"He...doesn't live in a great place right now," he adds. "So I wanted to at least offer a space to him. He hasn't gotten back to me yet." 

Jim chuckles to himself. 

"What's so funny?" Bruce asks, a smile growing on his face. 

"Nothin'," Jim says, and shakes his head. "It's just...it's so _you_. Always trying to help, even after you've hung up the suit." 

Jim brushes his knuckles against Bruce's. 

"You don't think it's weird?" 

Jim looks at him. His eyes are warm, crinkled in the corners, _loving_. 

"No," he says. "I think I would expect nothing else from you." 

Bruce looks out at the garden again. Jim leans lightly against him. Bruce moves to step back and slip his arms around Jim's waist. Jim startles, but melts into the embrace a moment later, leaning his head back on Bruce's shoulder. 

"You know, being alone in the manor got me thinking," Bruce says. "We had a dog when I was younger. Shelley." 

"You want a pet?" Jim asks, grinning, eyes closed. 

"I'm thinking about getting a pet," Bruce admits. He squeezes Jim's waist. "I just don't know _what_." 

Jim hums non-commitally. "Hey, as long as it's something that'll like me." 

Bruce chuckles and discreetly palms something from his pocket. He curls his hand into a fist. 

"I can't imagine any animal not _liking_ you," he murmurs, and watches Jim's lips lift in a smile. "So, what do you think?" 

"I think you should probably choose," Jim answers, stupidly rational as always. He opens his eyes to look at him. "It'll be running around your house, so, your decision." 

Bruce uncurls his fist in front of Jim. 

"I want it to be yours as well," he says, and watches as Jim takes in the key, and his words, and - 

"Bruce, are you - " He turns his head to look at Bruce, studying him as if he'll disappear. 

"Only if you want," Bruce adds. Jim turns in his arms to face him. 

"Are you asking me to move in?" Jim asks, but his voice is quieter now. 

"Yeah," Bruce says softly, almost whispered, like if he speaks too loud the spell will break. 

"You don't have to," he clarifies, and swallows. "But...I want you to have a key. And you can always keep some stuff here. And I can always talk to Robin if you don't want him - " 

Jim picks up the key. And kisses him. 

"I don't mind Robin living here," he murmurs into it, his grin brushing Bruce's cheek. "And I vote dog." 

"Dog it is," Bruce agrees, and sweeps Jim into his arms for another long, sweet kiss. 

For the first time in a long time, Bruce feels like he's home. 


	13. Epilogue: Six Months Later

Bruce pushes sunglasses up his nose and sips lemonade through a silly straw, adjusting his cap to block out the bright sun above him. The lounger creaks with his movements, and drops of water tickle his feet - he drapes an arm over the side and a huge, fluffy head knocks against his palm, leaning into the scritches of his fingers. 

Okay, so there's been a few changes around the manor. Jim moved in shortly after Bruce asked him to, but he's kept ownership of his old house for late nights at the precinct, when an evidence trail deadends at four a.m. and he can only be bothered to drive to the much nearer residential area of Gotham. 

Robin accepted Bruce's offer four months after that, for the lodge, briefly, but a month in he asked if the room was still available, since he was in the manor all the time anyway for Marie and the bigger kitchen. So now he lives in the wing opposite Bruce and Jim, to the right of the main staircase. 

And Marie, well, Marie's just new. She's only been with them for three months, but she's as happy-go-lucky as retrievers come, happily running into obstacles and thwacking her tail against anything and everything. Bruce often finds himself tripping on her, but she has enough common sense to not mess with Jim and his cane. Although he's sure Jim has been spoiling her when he's not looking, because the treats box is looking a little emptier than usual. Or Robin could be the culprit - he loves her almost more than Alfred's muffins he brings over whenever he visits for dinner. 

Speaking of, it's Alfred's birthday today, so they're all hanging out in the garden for a party that started as a surprise and then melted into a fantastic time around the pool - a pool Bruce put in at Jim's insistence and Rosie's request and Robin's unsubtle asking. Swear to god, he's gotten soft since giving up the cowl. Currently, Jim is sitting beside Bruce on a deck chair, trying to coax Marie back over to his side with pet names; Robin and Tiffany are in the pool itself, beating the hot sun with water and engaging in furious pool noodle fights with Rosie's kids, Hector and Ferdinand. Alfred and Rosie sit on the floor by the pool, feet dipped in it and occasionally whapped by a stray noodle. 

Bruce is maturely staying out of it. He sucks on his silly straw again. Lemonade loop-de-loops up it. The straw was a gift from Hector earlier, and how could Bruce say no to the kid? 

Anyway, he thinks it suits him. Something tickles at his foot. 

"C'mon, Bruce, reclaim your glory," Tiffany says. Bruce cracks an eye open to see her prodding his foot with a pool noodle, grinning at him. He'd gotten thoroughly beaten at pool noodling earlier, and had retreated up here afterwards. 

"Why do I feel like this is a trick?" He asks. 

"What are you, chicken?" Robin asks from across the pool, balancing Ferdinand carefully on his shoulders. 

"It was a bit embarrassing," Jim says, and laughs when Bruce stares at him. 

"Hey, I won my round," Jim reminds him, holding his hands up in mock surrender. 

"I'll even give you a head start," Tiffany promises. Bruce calmly reaches down beside his lounger and feels for something on the ground - a second later, he lifts the water gun and shoots Tiffany square in the face with it. She shrieks and dives into the water to escape. Bruce shoves his lemonade next to an empty cake plate and aims for Robin next. 

"Hey, not fair!" Robin shouts, and holds up one arm in protectively in front of his face, his other hand still gripping Ferdinand's ankle. He briefly lets go to fumble behind him on the concrete beside the pool and lift a water pistol up to Ferdinand. 

"Get him, Ferdinand!" He cries, and goes back to holding the kid's ankles while Ferdinand shoots Bruce back, giggling gleefully. 

Bruce scoots forward on the chair and dodges the next spray, swears under his breath when the next hits him across the chest. Jim laughs loudly beside him. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Tiffany surface beside Alfred and Rosie, and sees Alfred hand her a water gun, a mischievous smile playing on his lips. The _traitor_. Bruce shoots a stream at his ankles - Alfred startles and Rosie laughs - and gets a jet of water in the face for it from Tiffany, drawing him back to his original targets. 

Bruce ends up scooting off of the lounger entirely and clambering towards the water, holding an arm up to try and stay somewhat dry, even though he's already heading towards the pool edge. Ferdinand and Tiffany have a brief battle full of shrieking and splashing, with Robin manoeuvring around the pool to help Ferdinand dodge. Hector pops up somewhere in Tiffany's corner, and they have a short standoff before exchanging words and a fist bump. A dangerous alliance for Bruce. 

"Ooh, watch out, it's the fearless Bat," Tiffany teases as Bruce slips into the water, gun held high. 

Oh, yeah, and the whole Batman thing. He came clean to Rosie and her grandkids, although it turned out Rosie already knew. _You think I didn't notice you staying up all hours, Bruce?_ she had said, a mischievous grin on her face. Honestly, she and Alfred were made for each other, with how much they keep teaming up on Bruce. 

Speaking of teaming up, Bruce hardly knows the lay of the land in the pool now - earlier, Robin and Tiffany were united against him while the kids were running around with Marie. Now, they're divided, with the kids split between them, and Bruce is starting to feel like he's just waded into no man's land with all the gun barrels pointed his way. If he had any dignity, he'd drop the gun and surrender. 

Unfortunately for all of them, he hung up the dignity with the cowl. 

Bruce grins and shoots Robin in the throat before swinging around to nail Tiffany in the chest, just over her heart - Robin coughs and then both of them shout and scramble to shoot him back, backing up against the far edge of the pool as streams of water hit Bruce in the jaw and shoulders, bravely aimed by Ferdinand and Hector. 

It's complete and utter chaos for a few minutes. Everyone shoots each other; Ferdinand climbs off of Robin's shoulders to get in the pool by himself, and relationships dissolve soon afterwards. Tiffany gets Bruce in the back; Ferdinand squeals when Bruce gets him in the arm; Hector drenches Robin's hair; Robin dives to avoid the fire and pops up behind Bruce to hit him in the back of the head, surprising him into dropping the gun, which sinks underwater. 

Somewhere in the fray, Robin weaponises Hector with a super soaker. Bruce gets a faceful of it first, laughing too hard to catch a proper breath, and someone dives underneath to steal his forgotten gun, and Alfred and Rosie get splashed with the scrambling - over the noise, he can also hear Jim laughing uproariously. 

Bruce retreats to a corner to try and find a discarded gun on the edge, and then something prods him in the back. He turns to see Hector behind him, pushing a blue pool noodle towards him with a goofy grin on his face. 

"You wanna team up?" Hector asks, and, well, Bruce _does_ need to reclaim his pool noodle honour. 

"Definitely," Bruce laughs, and shakes Hector's hand in a firm one-two before accepting the pool noodle. Hector refills the super soaker and together, they head out into the middle of the pool. 

"Oh _hell_ no," Tiffany says, and ducks the pool noodle Bruce swings at her - Robin doesn't move in time, though, and it smacks off his cheek. 

"Wow," he says to Bruce, rubbing his cheek with a smile. "That was _cold_ , Bats." 

\-- 

Robin shouts when he's thwacked with Bruce's noodle again, and the occupants of the pool scramble to change their weapons out, swapping guns for varying sizes of foam noodles and trying to poke each other across the water. Rosie even grabs one to annoy her grandkids prodding at the backs of their heads and laughing loudly when they splash her in return, soaking the hem of her shorts. Marie perks up underneath Jim's hand, but doesn't move, instead watching with acute interest as Batman fights kids in the pool. 

"What has this city come to," Jim sighs dramatically, chuckling at his own joke. There's a pool noodle laying by his other side on the ground, but he doesn't reach for it now. 

Instead, like Marie, he watches idly, rubbing circles between her ears while water splashes over the edges and dries in the warm sun. Movement on the outskirts catches his eye - his gaze turns to Alfred and Rosie antagonising the pool occupants. While she bothers her kids, Alfred starts tucking away the remnants of their cake plates and kisses her sweetly on the cheek before getting up. 

Catching Alfred privately isn't a chance Jim gets often - in the manor, he can never be sure where Bruce, Robin, or Tiffany are at any given time, and with both Alfred and Rosie retired, they spend most of their time together in her house, or with the grandkids. And Jim's had something on his mind that he's been trying to ask Alfred for a couple weeks now, _without_ anyone listening in. The last thing he needs is this particular plan floating around the manor. 

Jim pats Marie on the head and takes his chance to pick up his cane and scoot off of the lounger, adjusting his sunglasses as he follows Alfred to the long-forgotten tables closer to the manor, with the aftermath of cake and Jim's barbecue strewn across it. Alfred is calmly pushing folded paper plates and napkins into the bin when Jim approaches. 

"Hello, Jim," Alfred says without looking up, wiping frosty fingers on a napkin he then pushes into the trash. 

"Hey." Jim shifts on his feet and glances back at the pool, where the fight is still continuing. At Bruce, soaked through with chlorinated water and smiling so brightly he almost rivals the sun. Alfred closes the bin lid and calmly looks up at him. 

"I wanted to ask you something," Jim says, chances another glance over his shoulder to make sure no one's listening to them. "I - " 

"Yes, you have my blessing," Alfred says, smiling kindly at Jim. Jim blinks and stammers briefly for words. 

Maybe it's strange, but Alfred already knowing, already _expecting_ the question lifts a load off of Jim's shoulders that he hadn't even known he was holding. When even Alfred's waiting for it, it seems like there's no other logical outcome, like of _course_ Jim was going to consider proposing, like of _course_ he'd end up at a second altar one way or another, and with _Bruce_ of all people. 

"How did you know?" He asks dumbly. Alfred shakes his head, a mischievous glint in his eye. 

"Who do you think _taught_ Bruce all he knew?" He says conspiratorially. Jim runs a hand through his hair and laughs with him. Alfred lays a hand on his arm and squeezes fondly. 

"Welcome to the family, Jim," he says, knowing smile and all, and then calmly walks away to return to the pool. 

Jim watches quietly at Alfred settles back into his spot beside Rosie, dipping his feet into the pool and slipping a hand seamlessly into hers while he joins the laughter and conversation. He looks happy. _They_ look happy. Maybe not a typical little family, but a family nonetheless, with each other and with Rosie's grandkids, who stay over so often that even Jim's had plenty of occasion to spend time with them. 

And like this, it's not hard to see the similarities. Between Alfred and his expanding family, to Bruce and his ever-growing group - not quite familial, his relationships with Tiffany and Robin, but closer than simple friends, bonded through their unique work, through their unique lives. And maybe it's just a byproduct of spending too much time in the damn place, but Wayne Manor never seems to run out of room for all the pieces in it, and for all the pieces that could be, and Jim is...Jim is one of those pieces, slotting in right beside Bruce like he'd always belonged there. 

"Jim! What are you doing over there?" Tiffany calls, jabbing her pool noodle into Robin's abdomen. 

"I'm just getting a drink!" He shouts back. 

"Well, can you get me something?" Tiffany asks, right before a pool noodle slaps her on the head and she slips underwater with a startled shout. 

Jim picks up a six pack of soda and makes his way back to the poolside, sinking into his lounger with a satisfied groan, his knees pleasantly un-achey in the warm sun. Tiffany resurfaces on his side of the pool, holding out a hand with a raised eyebrow and a smile that widens when Jim tosses her a random can. 

_Welcome to the family, Jim_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo, last chapter! Thanks for reading!


End file.
